


evil has never loved you as i do

by likecharity



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Crime Fighting, Crimes & Criminals, Drug Addiction, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Murder, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-21
Updated: 2011-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 19:11:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likecharity/pseuds/likecharity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years since Nathan Harris first entered the BAU's lives, he's back, a suspect once again. But this time, it seems he really <i>is</i> the unsub.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set in some sort of alternate universe mid-season 5. Title from 'Evil Has Never' by Union of Knives. Endless thanks to [crumpetdear](http://crumpetdear.livejournal.com) for the encouragement! ♥

Hotch doesn't think of Nathan Harris straight away. Not when JJ comes into his office and tells him they've got a case. Not when she shows them the pictures of the victims, young prostitutes found lying on motel beds in D.C., naked and stabbed to death. Not even when she states that this latest victim was found with a lock of her hair cut off. 

Instead, he thinks of the meaning of the act, the psychology behind it. "So that's his trophy," he says.

"That's what I thought, but look—" she points to the picture on the screen, where the girl's hair is spread out like a golden halo around her head. At first Hotch can't see what she means, but then—

"It's still there," says Rossi, and Hotch peers closer and sees that he's right. A lock of hair has indeed been cut off, but it lies on the pillow less than an inch away from the girl's head.

"Why remove the hair but not keep it?" asks Prentiss.

"The unsub probably intended to cut off all of the victim's hair but lost his nerve," Hotch says.

Morgan nods. "That suggests inexperience. Uncertainty about what he's doing."

"The victims were young, too," Rossi adds. "He probably felt safer going after a teenager, less intimated by her. Plus, a prostitute. Low-risk victim. He definitely doesn't seem practised at this."

"The stab wounds show hesitation, too, even with the third victim," Prentiss agrees. "I'd say he's young. Early twenties, if not younger."

There are general sounds of agreement from the team, but Reid interrupts with a "Why?", rather sharply.

This is when Hotch thinks of Nathan Harris, and, it seems, when everybody else does too. Except—

"You think he's older?" Rossi asks, oblivious to the sudden tension in the room.

Reid says nothing for a moment. Prentiss is staring at the table, looking almost guilty. "I just—inexperienced doesn't necessarily mean young," Reid says eventually, his voice small.

"The age of the victim in this case is a heavy indicator," Rossi replies with a frown.

Hotch doesn't like the atmosphere in the room. "Reid has a point," he speaks up. The others look at him, a little surprised. He doesn't meet Reid's eyes. "We don't want to jump to conclusions too early. It's entirely possible that this is a man in his thirties or forties who simply sees teenage prostitutes as easy targets. Or they could represent somebody to him, like a daughter or niece. We can't be sure at this stage."

Reid nods, says quietly, "Thank you, sir."

Further silence, and then Rossi leans forward again, forearms on the desk, voice sharp and serious. "Am I missing something?"

Again, nobody speaks. Hotch sees Morgan throw a glance Reid's way, but Reid does not return it—his arms are folded and he's hunched uncomfortably in his chair, eyes cast downwards.

"If there's information here that's relevant to the case," Rossi continues, "it shouldn't be held back." Still, silence. "Aaron?"

Hotch hesitates. He looks to Reid again, gives him a chance to explain for himself, but Reid is still refusing to look up. "A few years ago we worked a case in D.C.," Hotch says, eventually, rubbing at his forehead with the back of his hand. "The unsub murdered prostitutes and cut off their hair."

"You think that's our guy?" Rossi asks, puzzled.

Hotch shakes his head. "No, we caught him. But only after being lead down a different path for a while. Our initial suspect was a teenager called Nathan Harris who admitted to fantasizing about the murders."

"Ah. You think _that's_ our guy?"

Before Hotch has a chance to respond, Reid lets out a little noise, almost a gasp. He's shaking his head vehemently. "It's not Nathan. It can't be Nathan."

"Reid," says Hotch carefully, "no one is saying for certain that it is. It's just that, given the circumstances, we ought to keep him in our minds. It's a possibility."

Reid does not stop shaking his head, and Morgan reaches out, puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. Rossi's eyebrows are raised in confusion, curiosity, but Hotch isn't sure he should tell the rest of the story with Reid here and so visibly distressed. He's a little surprised at the strength of Reid's reaction, but then—Reid saved that kid's life. If Nathan has gone on to commit murder, that's a real weight of responsibility for Reid to carry.

"It can't be Nathan," Reid repeats. Morgan's hand tightens, squeezes Reid's shoulder.

"Reid..." says Prentiss, hesitantly. "It could be. He would be, what, eighteen now?"

"Nineteen," Reid says right away, his voice small.

"And it's in the right area. And the hair—"

The color drains from Reid's face. "Emily," Hotch says sharply. Prentiss gives him a Look, and he knows she's only trying to do the right thing, trying to get Reid to accept that this is a possibility, but they need to be sensitive. "Morgan," he says, suddenly, decisive, "take Reid to get a glass of water."

"No, I—" Reid protests. "Don't get rid of me just because you want to discuss Nathan as a suspect."

"Reid..." Morgan says gently, pleadingly.

"Just take a minute. Drink some water. Clear your head," Hotch says. His voice sounds stern, it doesn't waver—though every other part of him does when he looks at Reid's face, the desperation and the panic evident in his eyes.

But Reid complies, following Morgan out of the room. The door clicks swiftly shut behind them, and Rossi breaks the awkward silence just as it begins to set in.

"Geez. What _happened_ with this Nathan kid?"

JJ sighs, sits down beside Hotch and tucks her hair behind her ear. "He tried to kill himself. Reid saved his life."

Rossi says nothing, but is visibly surprised by this information, eyebrows lifting as he considers it in silence.

"Reid got—kind of attached to him," Prentiss goes on. "Nathan sought him out, right at the beginning of the investigation, and...I don't know. They saw something in each other."

JJ nods. "I think they could have been friends, had the situation been different. And Reid doesn't find that often."

"No kidding," Rossi says, almost chuckles, and Hotch knows it's not disrespectful, just Dave's way of dealing with an uncomfortable topic. He doesn't care for the emotional aspects of the story, and is already to move on with the discussion now that he's been filled in. "You think this kid could be our unsub?"

"It's a possibility," Prentiss says. "He was young and he was really trying to fight his urges, but...it's been three years."

"He was sent to a mental institution after his suicide attempt, though," JJ points out. "Didn't seem like they'd be willing to let him out in a hurry."

Prentiss shrugs. "We could find out if he's been discharged."

"You're serious enough about this to do that?"

Prentiss seems frustrated. "C'mon, J. The unsub's killing young prostitutes in D.C. Stabbing them, like we know Nathan fantasized about. He tried cutting off her hair. Nathan saw Ronald Weems do the same thing to his victims. It all adds up." JJ goes quiet, taken aback, and Prentiss sighs. "I'm not saying it's definitely him. None of us can know that. I'm just saying we have plenty of reason to consider him a possible suspect. Hotch?"

Hotch can't argue with that. "So far, it's our only lead."

JJ looks miserable, turning a pen over and over in her hands, fidgeting.

"I don't like the idea any more than you do," Hotch adds. "But it's dangerous for us to ignore the possibility." 

The door opens again, and Morgan enters with Reid in tow. Reid still seems shaky, clutching a half-empty plastic cup in a trembling hand as he sits down.

"So what's our next step?" Rossi prompts.

Hotch frowns, thinking. "JJ, I want you to track down Nathan Harris's file. There'll be a mention of the institution he was taken to. I want you to call them and find out if he's still under their care." JJ nods. "This doesn't mean anything," Hotch adds, "we just need to find out whether it's even worth considering Harris as a suspect. If he's been safely in hospital for the past three years, we can move on with our profile. If not—well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

He's talking to the whole team, but really, the last part is directed at Reid. He knows sometimes they treat him like he's made of glass, but—sometimes they have reason to. Reid looks almost ill now, his skin papery-white, and he finishes the water in his cup as the rest of the team begin to disperse. 

"Morgan?" Hotch hears Reid asking in a small voice. "Can you come get some more water with me?"

Hotch exchanges a look with Morgan as the three of them get to their feet. They separate in the bullpen, and Hotch heads to his office. 

Waits.

***

_There's something different about Dr. Reid lately, something Nathan can't quite put his finger on at first. He glows a little brighter, burns a little stronger. He seems more at ease than Nathan has ever seen him, peaceful, happy to talk and equally happy to just sit, cross-legged on Nathan's bed and facing him in comfortable silence. Zoning out. Like he's high._

_Maybe Nathan figures it out because he, too, is high these days—on the mind-numbing drugs he was prescribed shortly after entering the hospital, the cocktail of pills he takes every morning from a little paper cup. It's pretty much like every fictional depiction of a mental hospital he's ever seen, but he doesn't mind it—he sort of likes being watched and checked up on. He feels like he needs that. Like he's safe from himself as long as there are people keeping an eye on him._

_And the drugs—they don't do much of anything at first, at least not that he notices, but as the days pass he grows more aware of the change. It's a sort of dulling sensation, like his surroundings are slowly turning grey, but it's less unpleasant than it sounds._

_Dr. Reid's first visits were a little bit awkward, and Nathan was sure that he was only doing it out of some sense of obligation. They would sit in the foyer, like Reid didn't want to go too far into the building in case he might need a quick escape. Nathan liked seeing him—_ really _liked seeing him—but he couldn't shake the feeling that this was just something Reid felt like he_ had _to do. Their conversations were stilted and awkward, yet over too soon._

_And then a few weeks passed with no visits. No contact at all. And Nathan convinced himself that this was some sort of FBI protocol that Dr. Reid had now fulfilled, and he would not see him again. He resented him at first, but quickly turned his anger back in on himself—of course it was just an obligation. Of course Reid wasn't_ genuinely _interested in him._

_Reid returns when Nathan has given up hope, when he has been in the institution for two months and has resigned himself to a lifetime there. He shows up on a different day to his previous visits, and asks, quietly, if he can see Nathan's room. This is where they sit, cross-legged and facing each other, on Nathan's bed in his clinically white room. Reid is thinner than Nathan remembered, his face sort of gaunt, his eyes a little sunken and his skin as white as the walls. In Nathan's mind he has always been a glowing beacon, brighter and bolder than anyone else, and it's jarring to be reminded of reality._

_At first he is just thrilled to have his savior back, but as they talk, Nathan grows gradually more concerned. There are marks on Dr. Reid's wrists, faded but sure, visible when his sleeve slips back a little. There is something in his eyes like a haunting. He is jittery, jumping at every little noise from down the hall. He is not just thinner than Nathan remembers, he's thinner than he_ ought _to be, slight and bony with his clothes hanging awkwardly off his body. He looks sick, and Nathan says so, just blurts it out in the middle of one of Reid's sentences._

_Reid says that he's not, but he holds his bruised wrist in one hand as he speaks, like he's cradling it, like he's keeping a secret. And then he makes his excuses, and he leaves._

_The next time Dr. Reid visits, he is dazed and a little clumsy. His eyes don't seem to focus properly, and the pupils are full-blown blackness gazing back at Nathan. Nathan leads him down the corridors to his room, and tries to keep the conversation going, talks about the books Reid lent him—but Reid is barely there, drifting, untethered, and Nathan can't bring him down._

***

"Sir?" JJ enters Hotch's office hesitantly, a folder clutched in her hands. "I found the number. I just wondered if you had any interest in the rest of the file." 

"What else is there?" Hotch asks.

"Well, there's a recording of Nathan's psych evaluation with Gideon," JJ says. "I wasn't sure if—well, I just thought it might be helpful."

"You didn't call the institution yet?"

JJ shakes her head. "I'm sorry, I just thought I'd drop it off on my way—"

Hotch's heart sinks. JJ came by to give him further evidence before even _checking_ if it was worth taking Harris into consideration. Like a part of her believes there's no point in calling at all, because she knows it's him that's out there, killing these girls.

"Thank you, JJ." Hotch gestures for the file, and she hands it over. "Come straight back to me once you've made the call."

"Yes, sir."

It seems to take an age, but at least now Hotch has something to occupy himself with. Harris's file is sparse, made up of just a few documents stating his case, as well as statements from Reid and Garcia from the night of the boy's suicide attempt. And, as mentioned, a small tape in a plastic wallet, dated and marked with _psych eval_ alongside Gideon's name. Hotch turns it over in his hands as he tries to read the papers. His eyes skim Reid's handwriting, usually so neat but shaky and spidery here, detailing in clinical terms the way he staunched the blood flow from Harris's wrists until the paramedics arrived.

He wasn't there, but he heard about it from Gideon—heard about Reid shaken and stunned afterwards, wondering if he did the right thing, his hands stained with the kid's blood. Hotch hasn't thought about it in a long time. It seems like a small thing when compared to what else Reid has been through—after all, the horrific incident with Tobias Hankel came so soon afterwards, overshadowed it.

The door opens suddenly, startling Hotch out of his thoughts. JJ did not knock, and the look on her face tells him the answer before she gives it to him.

"He left the institution six months ago."

"Did you ask about the circumstances of his release?"

JJ nods. "Apparently he was a good patient. He seemed to have recovered. They felt there was no risk in returning him to society. He had a few check-ups upon leaving and they felt confident that he was getting his life in order."

"Well, that's something, at least," Hotch says, but even to his own ears he doesn't sound convinced.

JJ frowns. "Should we tell Reid?"

But before Hotch can even decide how to answer that question, the door opens again.

"Hotch?" Morgan bursts in. "Reid's been in contact with Nathan Harris."

"What?"

"He visited him in the institution, and they wrote letters."

"Are you _sure_?" JJ asks, looking astonished.

"Well, he just told me, so yeah, I'm pretty sure." Morgan sighs. "He said they lost touch about six months ago, when Nathan was released."

"Why wouldn't he tell us?" JJ asks, sounding hurt. "He kept it a secret for this long?"

Morgan shakes his head. "I'm just as shocked as you are."

"JJ," says Hotch sharply, reaching for the little tape on the desk in front of him and holding it out. He understands that this has come as a surprise—hell, he's stunned too, wondering how none of them noticed—but there are more important things to deal with. "Take this to Garcia. I think it needs another listen. Explain to her the situation, but please—be brief and professional. Tell her to listen for anything else that paints him as our unsub."

JJ bites her lip, hesitates, but takes the tape and leaves, mumbling a "yes sir," on her way out.

"Morgan. Does Reid know that you're telling me this?"

"He said he didn't want anyone to know, but...I said I had to, for the sake of the case. He knew I'd come straight to you. He just couldn't do it himself, I guess."

Hotch frowns. "He withheld information relevant to the case. That's very serious."

"I know. But he's upset."

"It doesn't excuse it. I have to talk to him."

Morgan nods, sighs. "All right," he says, but on his way to the door he stops, turns back. "Just—Hotch, go easy, okay? Kid's messed up right now."

Hotch wants to say, _when isn't he?_ but holds his tongue, just nods, waves his hand at the door for Morgan to leave. A moment goes by, and then he gets to his feet, heads out to find Reid.

The excuses start almost immediately.

"I know I should have said something right away. I'm sorry. I just—I can't deal with the idea of him doing this, I _can't_ —"

"Reid, sit down." Reid is pacing, agitated, back and forth across the office floor. He ignores Hotch, and Hotch sighs. "Is there anything else you can tell us that you think is relevant? I _know_ you don't want to think of it in these terms, but if there's been any indication from your contact with Harris—"

"What? That he was going to—?" Reid can't even seem to bring himself to say it. "And you think I wouldn't have told anyone?"

"I don't know," Hotch says, honestly. "You didn't tell us he'd been released from the institution. Now I'm concerned about what else you might be withholding."

Reid stops abruptly, but even though he's still it seems like his whole body is thrumming with energy. He stares at Hotch, wide-eyed. "I know nothing more about these murders than you do, sir."

"You may know a lot more about the person who committed them."

Reid sighs. "I don't know what you want me to say," he bursts out. "Nathan seemed like he was getting better. We lost touch. I just thought—I thought he didn't need me anymore." At this, he averts his eyes from Hotch's steady gaze. "I had no—there was nothing to suggest—" he seems to crumple against the wall, going limp, "I _still_ don't think this can be him."

"Would you let the team analyze the letters he sent you?" Hotch asks, cautiously. "There may be something you didn't see at the time."

" _No,_ " says Reid sharply, and it's the strongest his voice has been all day. He looks aghast. "No, I—I'm sorry, sir, but I really—they're personal."

Hotch frowns. "That may mean we're more likely to find something of use to us." 

Reid says nothing. There's a knock at the door.

"Just a minute," Hotch calls sharply. He looks back at Reid, who shifts uncomfortably. "Reid," Hotch says quietly, "as it is, I'm not sure we have enough evidence to bring Harris in for questioning. Without anything more to go on, all we can do is try and refine the profile until there's another murder. At this point, anything more, no matter how small or insignificant it may seem, could help us save another life."

It's a transparent tactic, he knows, a guilt-trip—but though he expects Reid to see through it, he also expects it to work. Which is why he's surprised when Reid just shakes his head, says, "I'm sorry, sir," once again, and heads towards the door.

He passes Garcia waiting outside, and Hotch sees her briefly stroke Reid's arm in sympathy. He can tell she wants to hug him, but holds back. She enters Hotch's office in an uncharacteristically nervous way, holding the tape of Harris's psych evaluation.

"Sir," she says, quietly, and checks behind her that the door has closed, "I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I'm comfortable with listening to this. In fact, I—I just spent ten minutes sitting and staring at it and I couldn't bring myself to listen to it, so, uh, I'm pretty sure, actually."

"Garcia," Hotch says, tiredly, pressing his hands to his forehead where he can feel a headache coming on. "At the moment, Nathan Harris is our only suspect. There could be something on that tape that gives us reason to bring him in for questioning. Or even reason to discard him completely from this case. Either way, that tape could be important, and we're not going to know until it's listened to."

"With all due respect, sir," Garcia says, her voice still wavering just slightly, "you didn't see him, that night." She swallows. "Nathan wanted to die. And I mean—I mean he _really_ wanted to die. You didn't see the way he looked at Reid when Reid said he wouldn't let him. Nathan would rather die than kill anybody, so the idea of him murdering three girls, I just—"

"I know it's hard to deal with," Hotch interrupts, "but—"

"I am not just being emotional, sir," Garcia interrupts _him_ , her voice louder now, certain. "I am telling you this from a professional point of view. I do not believe Nathan Harris is capable of murdering three girls. Not the Nathan Harris I met back then, and definitely not one that's had a few years of therapy. This tape..." she holds it up, "I don't believe it can tell us anything we don't already know, and what we already know is not evidence." She takes a deep breath, and, as she looks at him, goes slightly pink in the cheeks.

For a moment Hotch doesn't say anything. He isn't sure what to say. It's easy, perhaps, to ignore Garcia and Reid, to class their views as biased, too caught up in emotion. After all, it's the two of them that were in the motel room with Harris the night that he almost died. But—

"I didn't like the kid, sir," Garcia says as though she's reading his mind, "he gave me the creeps. But a creepy kid does not a serial killer make."

Hotch nods, tiredly. She's right, and that's not all she's right about. Hotch didn't see Harris that night, nor did he see much of him at any other point during the investigation. He didn't even really discuss him with the rest of the team—once they had the kid under their surveillance, Hotch only wanted to talk about alternatives. Not to mention the fact that he was distracted by Congresswoman Steyer throughout the whole case. He really doesn't know much about Harris at all beyond the basics, and it's realising this that helps to bring him to a conclusion.

***

He listens to the tape. 

He waits until he's sure he won't be disturbed, because it doesn't feel like something he should be doing, even though he knows that in the circumstances he certainly has the right. The tape is old, now, a little crackly, and he has to turn the volume up loud to even hear Harris's voice. It's paper-thin, shy and ashamed, not much more than a whisper as he admits a vague, _I've just been thinking about stuff._

_About hurting women?_ Gideon's voice comes back, louder, steady and sure, and Hotch isn't prepared for how strange it is to hear that voice again.

_Yeah_ , Harris's small voice responds.

Hotch listens to the boy talk about his mother—a doctor, Hotch gathers—and her med school receiving cadavers for students to examine. This was the way in which young Nathan first saw a naked woman—dead—and Hotch can't help but feel a little bit sorry for him at that. It's not hard to end up with issues if that's the way your sexuality begins.

_Sometimes I think about feeling their blood in my hands, feeling it flow through my fingers._

_Does it ever make you climax? Just by thinking of that?_

A shaky intake of breath on the tape, here. The boy sounds close to tears, and Hotch imagines that he is nodding. _I know I'm crazy._

Maybe Hotch understands a little more, already, what Garcia was saying. It's hard to believe that this boy, young and scared and so full of self-hatred, could ever really manage to commit murder. But as he listens, he becomes less sure of this—Nathan is _overwhelmed_ by his desires, and perhaps they're something he never learned to control. Perhaps they got the better of him.

_You approached Dr. Reid,_ says Gideon. _Why was that?_

Silence. _I don't know._ A moment's more silence. _I thought—I thought he'd be able to help me._

_What was it about him that made you think that?_

_I—I knew his job._ Nathan seems even more reluctant to talk about this than about the previous topic, which strikes Hotch as odd. There are long pauses, and he seems to be choosing his words carefully. _I saw a couple of his lectures and I just thought he would understand._

_When my agents came to arrest you, you said 'I knew if you were really good, you'd find me.' Did you talk to Dr. Reid because you specifically wanted to be found by the FBI?_

_No, I—I just wanted to talk to someone who would understand._

_Why not a counsellor?_

Nathan sighs. He sounds frustrated, flustered. _I don't know. I don't know, I just..._

_You chose Dr. Reid. I'm just curious about why._ Nathan says nothing, and Gideon goes on. _It's a good thing; it shows that you have serious concerns about your desires. It's a healthy thing to seek help._ Another pause. _It's just a little unusual to seek it from an FBI agent._ Gideon chuckles here, and Hotch is surprised to find himself smiling, just a little, at the sound of his old friend's laughter.

_I don't know,_ Nathan says again. _When I saw him lecturing I just...admired him, I guess. I thought he seemed cool. I wanted to talk to him. I don't know._

A thoughtful silence on Gideon's end. _Do you ever think about hurting men?_

Hotch is a little surprised at this turn in the conversation, and he wonders what Gideon's thought process was. He wonders if the tape skipped, if he missed something. 

Nathan seems taken aback, too. _No—what?_

_Are you attracted to men, Nathan? Or to boys at school?_

Hotch can almost hear Nathan shifting uncomfortably in his seat. The boy clears his throat, but his voice is still as faint as ever. _No—I—not...not generally._

_Are you attracted to Dr. Reid?_

Silence. That shaky breath again. There's no real audible response to the question, but it's not necessary.

_Is that why you approached him?_

Hesitance. _Yes, but—but I didn't think anything would_ happen _, it wasn't like that, I just—I wanted help and I chose him._ Nathan's voice is desperate then as he begs, _please don't tell him._

_This is confidential_ , comes Gideon's reassurance.

Hotch has to pause the tape here, though he's not sure why. He needs a moment to take it all in, and his fingers tremble on the button, his hands clammy. _Did_ Gideon tell Reid about this? Gideon didn't reveal anything about Nathan's evaluation (as far as Hotch knows) beyond the fact that there was definite cause for concern. Hotch tries to put himself in Gideon's shoes, and realises that perhaps he would have kept Nathan's secret too. After all, what good would it do telling Reid? It wouldn't have mattered. If the kid wanted Reid to know, he'd tell him himself.

Hotch wonders if he did. If perhaps that's what's so personal about Nathan's letters, the reason Reid doesn't want them to be read by the team. Perhaps if the others listened to the tape and it was all out in the open, Reid wouldn't mind so much about that. Hotch can't help but be bothered by the idea that Reid might be sitting on something that could be helpful to the investigation—he trusts Reid, of course, but he knows his judgement could easily be clouded by emotion and they might catch something in the letters that he didn't.

For the first time he wonders if perhaps Reid shouldn't be on this case at all; if he has too much personal involvement.

And then he brushes the thought aside, and listens to the rest of the tape.

***

_"Are you on drugs?" Nathan asks this time, clear and to the point, saying what's been going around and around in his mind for what feels like so long now. He whispers it, the door to his room open in accordance with the hospital's visiting rules._

_Reid is dazed again today, hazy and out of it. On something. "You noticed," Reid breathes. "I didn't think anyone had noticed."_

_Which strikes Nathan as kind of sweet, really, kind of naïve—Reid works with people whose entire jobs revolve around_ noticing things _, and he's sure they're aware, even if Reid doesn't know it._

_"Why?" Nathan asks, his voice hushed. He'd convinced himself, but to hear it confirmed is something else, and he's overcome with curiosity. A sick part of his brain wants to celebrate, says_ he's fucked up like you. _Dr. Reid is not the image of perfection Nathan imagined; he needs drugs to get along, and Nathan needs to know_ why _._

_Reid tells him. Lies down on his back first, like he doesn't want to look at Nathan's face while he says it. He murmurs, "Is this okay?" tentatively stretching out his legs. His feet rest on Nathan's pillow, shoeless as per the hospital's rules, the laces an apparent danger._

_Nathan lies down too, awkwardly settling himself beside Reid's outstretched body. Top-to-tail, like kids at a sleepover._

_"It's okay," Nathan assures him, and it feels odd that Dr. Reid is the one needing reassurance from_ Nathan _, the one suddenly timid and unsure. He doesn't know if he likes it; behind his nerves he can feel a tiny pulse of arousal._

_It only gets worse when Reid starts to explain. Kidnapped, tied up, tortured and drugged for two days—it makes Nathan's heart pound hearing it, words uttered quickly in Reid's shaky voice as he stares up at the ceiling. The story is not told chronologically, and Reid's current state makes some parts of it almost completely incomprehensible, but Nathan's own mind fills in the gaps._

_He turns onto his side, wants to press his body right into Reid's, for comfort and for something else, something that grows and grows the more Reid talks about the fear and the pain and the helplessness he felt. Nathan's belly roils, and he curls in on himself, arms wrapped tight around his own torso like he needs to restrain himself from reaching out. He thinks he should be telling Reid it's gonna be okay, patting him on the back and saying it's all over now—but nothing comes naturally and Nathan ends up silent, images burning through his brain._

_And he_ does _feel sympathy, and he wishes that bastard didn't get such an easy out with a bullet through his chest, because Nathan wants to find him and make him pay, but—but the feelings that ripple through him when he thinks of Reid bound to a chair, beaten and vulnerable—they're ones he hasn't felt in a long time, desires dulled by drugs and therapy and just now coming back strong. Reid is quiet, and Nathan realises that he has been quiet for a while now. There's a gentle click-clack of a nurse's shoes out in the corridor, but the sound fades gradually away._

_"You're the first person I've told," Reid says in a small voice. His feet quiver on Nathan's pillow, trembling in their mismatched socks—one grey, one striped purple and black—and Nathan brings his face to them, lets his nose and cheek brush against them in a way that could almost seem accidental. But then he hears the way Dr. Reid's breath catches in his throat, and he wants to hear that sound again._

_He leans in closer, shakily inhales the smell of fabric conditioner and a slight musk of sweat and he presses his lips to the soft cotton that covers the tender arch of Reid's foot, the place where Hankel's belt stung him. His heart is in his throat and he feels like he might throw up from the urge to pull Reid close, to touch him and caress him all over and to dig in his fingernails until that white-soft skin bleeds. His hand hovers over Reid's skinny ankle, where his pant leg rides up, exposing pale skin and downy hair and a knob of bone—and then Reid jolts, pulls back and sits up, shaking._

_Nathan hurriedly sits up too, drawing his legs up to his chest, hiding the swelling in his close-fitting jeans and blushing badly. They are still very close, side-by-side, and Reid fumbles for his bag where it lies beside them on the floor._

_"I have to go," he says, words coming out in a rush, "I'll—I'll see you next week, I—"_

_"I'm sorry," Nathan cuts in, and Reid looks at him for the first time since laying down, his eyes wide. "I'm sorry that happened to you, I'm sorry, I—"_

_"It's—" Reid starts like he means to shrug it off, but stops like he can't._

_And then with a quick nod he's gone, and Nathan listens to his socked feet padding softly away down the hall, and he hates himself, he hates himself, he_ hates _himself._

***

Hotch can't sleep. He hasn't slept well since Foyet, but this time it's not Haley on his mind, and he thinks his brain almost appreciates the change—something else to agonize over as he tosses and turns. He thinks about Reid, and what Reid might be hiding, and he hears Nathan's little voice in every corner of his brain. He's rarely disturbed by anything he comes across at work these days, and he hesitates to say that the tape has disturbed him, but the memory of it won't leave him alone. It's not the fantasies that bother him, not Nathan's meek confessions, his desires to cut women open—Hotch has heard these things thousands of times before. 

Perhaps it's the strength of Nathan's involvement in his team's lives. It seems that, despite the time that has passed, this kid still holds some power over everybody. It was one of their most emotional cases, perhaps. But when Hotch thinks back, all he remembers is the stress of dealing with Congresswoman Steyer. He thinks he only ever caught a glimpse of Nathan, in the interrogation room, talking to Morgan and Reid. All he really remembers is this mousy young teenager, hunched over in his seat, his hair a mop of unruly brown curls. He doesn't remember his face.

He's surprised to realise that he can recall Reid's—remembers seeing him through the window, leaning in towards Nathan almost sympathetically. He remembers, suddenly, the look in Reid's eyes, a look he thought was odd at the time. Reid looked truly _sad_ for this boy, his forehead creased, his whole attitude giving off the impression that deep down, all he really wanted was to make things _better_ for this kid. It didn't matter to him that, at that point in their investigation, they believed that he may have killed two women. Reid just felt sorry for him.

Hotch is awake when his phone rings at 5:34am. It's the D.C. police, telling him they've got a fourth victim. He calls the others as he dresses, leaves Reid 'til last. As he scribbles a note for Jessica, kisses Jack goodbye without waking him, and leaves—he can still hear Reid's voice, thick with sleep and worry, saying just one word. "Okay." Just "Okay," and then he hung up.

The team gathers quickly. Everybody looks a little tired, a little shaken, but it's nothing compared to Reid—hunched over the table with both hands clutching a cup of coffee like he needs to brace himself with something, like he's afraid he might just slip away if he doesn't hold on. He looks like he hasn't had much sleep either, if any, eyes ringed dark. His hair hangs flat and unwashed. When JJ brings the first picture up onto the screen, he has to force himself to lift his head and look at it.

"Eighteen year old Ashley Hogg," JJ says, her voice dull and flat as if she's reading from a script, "found stabbed to death in a D.C. motel room." She takes a deep breath before saying what they're all focused on, the most obvious thing of all. "The word 'help' was carved into her stomach after her death."

Prentiss makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. "Like Weems," she says, voice muffled.

Rossi, the most together of them all this morning, asks, "Any signs of sexual assault?"

"Well—hard to say," replies JJ. "There's evidence that intercourse took place before the murder, but as with the other victims, there's no indication that it was rough or violent. It doesn't seem that she was forced."

"That's unusual," Hotch says, frowning. "Consensual sex rarely has anything to offer for a sexual sadist."

"In all likelihood, he hired these girls to have sex with like a normal client," Morgan speaks up. "The stabbing's clearly not a replacement for penetration, he's not impotent. His sexual urges are simply linked with his desire to kill. He fulfils both urges at once."

"But he shouldn't _need_ the sex," Hotch argues. "The murder itself should fulfil his sexual impulse. It's something else he's looking for."

"Intimacy?" Rossi suggests, but looks skeptical.

"Maybe he chooses prostitutes not just because of the low risk involved," Hotch goes on, "but because he _wants_ the sex to be consensual. He has no desire to take what he needs by force. Maybe he feels lonely. Ignored or betrayed by a woman in his life. Or maybe he's never been in a relationship." He thinks of Nathan Harris, spending three years locked away, probably forbidden from coming into contact with female patients. "He uses these girls for the intimacy he's been deprived of, then expresses his anger and frustration with the act of murder, which brings him the satisfaction he needs."

"It's unusual, but it makes sense," Prentiss agrees.

As they continue to talk, it strikes Hotch that they're _all_ thinking about Nathan Harris without ever mentioning his name. He tries not to look at Reid, but can see him out of the corner of his eye; fingers drumming agitatedly against his coffee cup, body tense with nervous energy.

"This victim was found only a week after the last," JJ adds. "He's devolving."

"But he's not slipping up?" Rossi asks. "No signs of disorganisation, leaving anything behind at the crime scene?"

JJ shakes her head. "We'll know more once we've examined it, but if anything, this murder seems more organised and premeditated than the others. He was neat, efficient. This time, he went through with the carving, while he failed to cut off the last victim's hair. He's sure of what he's doing now."

"But he's asking for help," Rossi interjects. "He clearly doesn't feel completely in control."

JJ exchanges a look with Prentiss. "It's possible," Prentiss says. "But Weems was the one who cut words into his victim's bodies. It seems more likely that this is a copycat action, not a compulsion that belongs solely to the killer."

"Like the hair-cutting," Morgan adds. "But he couldn't go through with that. This time, he's sure. See how the cuts of the letters are straight, neat, certain? He didn't do that on the spur of the moment, panicking in the aftermath. He planned it."

"But why?" asks JJ. 

"Maybe it _is_ a cry for help," suggests Hotch. For a moment, he forgets the tension in the room, too focused on the case, on figuring this out. It's habit. "He knows we worked the Weems case," he goes on, "maybe he's trying to alert our attention to him. Maybe he _wants_ us to consider him as a suspect."

Nobody says anything right away, and Hotch's hands ball into fists instinctively beneath the table. So far, they'd been keeping it vague, but without thinking he's made it more clear who they're all thinking of. And he can see Reid beginning to tremble, realising they're all pointing the finger.

"Because he thinks the only way he can stop is if he gets caught," Prentiss agrees, quickly, filling the silence. "That makes sense."

"Or perhaps he's just remembering the corpses from the original case," Rossi suggests. "You said he saw one of them? Maybe he's trying to relive that moment. Maybe the murders aren't bringing him enough excitement anymore, and there was something special to him about that time that he's trying to bring back by copying Weems's behaviour."

Prentiss nods. "It's possible..." she says, carefully. She's looking at Reid as she speaks, not bothering to hide it, and the others follow suit. Reid seems to hunch over further in his seat, staring blankly at his coffee, like he's trying to pretend they're not there.

"You okay, kid?" Morgan asks, gently, his voice low. "You don't have to be involved if this is too hard for you."

"Morgan's right," Hotch adds quickly. "I can have you taken off the case if it'll make things easier."

Just yesterday, he was demanding Reid get more involved in the case than anyone else, but today—today he can't take it. He can't take the look on Reid's face, the way he's almost doubled over in his seat, the pain visible on every part of his body. It makes his heart ache, and maybe it's because he knows pain like that, recognises it, sees it in himself almost every day now. He can't understand it in Reid, can't make sense of the strength of his reaction, but maybe he doesn't need to. Maybe he just needs to respond to it, and have sympathy.

Reid shakes his head, hesitant at first and then sure, fast. "No. No. I need to—I need to know."

"Do we have enough reason to bring Harris in for questioning?" Rossi asks.

"I'd say so," Hotch nods. "We should still have an address on file. JJ, ask Garcia to track him down. Dave, you can come with me. Morgan and Prentiss, go to the crime scene and examine the body. It's worth gathering as much information as we can in case Harris isn't our unsub."

The others begin bustling about, packing up their things. JJ rushes off to Garcia's office, and before long it's only Hotch and Reid left in the conference room.

"Sir," Reid's voice wavers, "is there anything I can do?"

Hotch knew he wasn't being particular subtle leaving Reid out of the orders, but—it doesn't seem like a good idea to send him out to the crime scene to see what Nathan may be capable of first-hand, and it definitely seems like a bad idea to bring him along for the arrest.

"Paperwork?" he suggests.

Reid nods, managing a slight smile of understanding as he gets to his feet unsteadily. He leaves his coffee, cold now, behind on the table, and Hotch watches him go, unable to hide his concern.

***

Nathan Harris is still living with his mother, in a nondescript apartment building in northwest D.C. He answers the door himself, almost instantly, like he's been waiting for them, and it makes Hotch uneasy. He's used to suspects trying to run the second they hear that knock on the door, used to at least having to say "FBI" to get them to open up. But—one neat rap on the door from Hotch's fist, and the door opens, and there stands Nathan Harris, thin and pale with an almost sheepish smile on his face. His hair is a mess of brown curls and he still looks about sixteen, taller now perhaps but stooping as though he wants to shrink in on himself. His sweater is too big for him, hanging off his skinny frame, and he fists the too-long sleeves in his hands as he looks at them through wide, blue-green eyes. 

Hotch isn't aware of the silence until Rossi breaks it, stepping in where Hotch has faltered. "Nathan Harris?" he asks. The boy nods. "FBI. You're under arrest on the suspicion of the murder." Rossi is matter-of-fact, to the point, pulling Nathan towards him by those skinny wrists and swiftly handcuffing them.

"Can I leave my Mom a note?" is Nathan's only response, and his voice sounds just the same as it did on the tape—and it's then that Hotch realises the tape wasn't bad quality at all, that's just how Nathan _sounds_ , like he's drifting away. "She's at work."

"You can call her from the station," Rossi says firmly, taking him by the shoulder.

Driving back, Hotch realises that perhaps Rossi could have made this arrest on his own. He's not sure what he expected, but it's not this—not Nathan coming quite willingly, sitting quietly in the back of the car with his cuffed hands in his lap like there's nowhere else for him to be. It's unsettling, and they barely speak for the entire journey. Nathan seems oblivious, and Hotch keeps an eye on him in the rear-view mirror, sees him gazing out the window like a kid on a family drive.

Hotch isn't prepared for any of it, but least of all what happens when they return to the station. Rossi in tow, he guides Nathan in with a hand on his shoulder—though it's completely unnecessary, with Nathan showing no signs of resisting. Hotch spots Reid over by his desk, and he catches his eye for a split-second. Before he even has a chance to realise what's happening, Reid is suddenly right there in front of them, throwing himself at Nathan, _embracing_ him, long limbs flung awkwardly around the kid, Nathan's own arms still cuffed and trapped between their bodies. 

For a moment everything is stunned silence. Other people at their desks have looked up in bemusement, and Hotch is speechless.

"Reid," says Rossi, finally, his voice carrying a sternness that Hotch is sure his own couldn't possibly manage. He curls a strong hand around Reid's shoulder, begins to pull him back. Reid's face is practically buried in the kid's neck, and when he lets him go and straightens up, he's red in the face, flushed with embarrassment. "Hotch's office. Now."

Reid takes a last look at Nathan, his eyes sad, _sorry_ , and then he turns quickly, hurries away. The people around them gradually begin to return to their work, and Rossi lets out a long, low whistle.

"I'll handle the kid. You talk to Reid," he says, steering Nathan towards an interrogation room. He gives Hotch a look, a little eyebrow-raise, a silent _the hell was that?_ and then they're gone, and Hotch feels like he's in over his head when the case has only just begun.

In all the years he's known Reid, he can count on one hand the times he's seen him initiate physical contact. And now? With a suspect in a murder case? It's not the first time Reid has connected with an unsub, and Hotch has always let it go—he honestly believes it's Reid's empathy that makes him such a good profiler, such a good asset to their team. But if he takes it too far, he's _detrimental_ to the team, and he seems oblivious of that, too caught up in Nathan to consider anything else.

Hotch finds Reid standing in front of his desk, feet tapping agitatedly against the floor and head bowed.

"I'm sorry, sir," he bursts out the second Hotch has closed the door behind him, "I know I shouldn't have—I can't excuse it—I just—I haven't seen him for so long and I—"

Hotch holds up one hand, and Reid shuts up instantly. "I understand that he's your friend," Hotch says, slowly, carefully, "but that's unacceptable. You treat him like any other suspect or you're off the case, do you understand me?"

Reid's mouth opens. He looks taken aback, a little hurt, maybe, and it bothers Hotch how guilty that makes him feel. 

"This isn't going to be an easy case for you, I know that," he says gently, "but I need to know that you can still do your job."

Reid still says nothing. He looks like he might cry, and it makes Hotch want to break something. "Are you still able to do your job, Dr. Reid?" he asks, impatient.

Reid nods, haltingly at first, and then a little more sure of himself.

"I think it's best that you have as little contact with Nathan Harris as possible," Hotch concludes, and tries not to notice the way that Reid's face falls, as though it couldn't fall further, as though his heart is breaking right here and now.

***

_Nathan does not see Dr. Reid the following week. It's the week after that when he shows up, wrapped in sweaters despite the warm weather, shaky and pale and thin, even more so than the last time. He's more lucid, but shivering and miserable, silent as Nathan guides him down the corridors, and by the time they reach Nathan's room Nathan has figured out what's going on._

_"You're detoxing," he says, as they settle themselves, cross-legged facing each other on Nathan's bed once again. The windows are open and some of the other patients are playing basketball in the yard; they can hear the echoing bounce of the ball on the tarmac, whoops and yells filtering in from outside. For the first time Nathan feels like he's strong, like somebody needs him._

_"Uh huh," says Reid, quietly._

_"How—" starts Nathan uncertainly, "how do you feel?"_

_Reid looks him in the eye properly for the first time since he arrived, and his mouth quivers its way into a smile. "Like shit," he says honestly, and a surprised little laugh bubbles itself up out of Nathan's chest before he has a chance to stop it. But then Reid joins in—a sad laugh, a little wheezy, ending in a cough._

_"How long has it been?"_

_"Four days," says Reid, and nods, lips pursed. His nod is rapid, a repeated bounce of his head, and Nathan realises that his legs are moving too, feet tapping restlessly._

_Nathan has no idea if four days is significant or not, but says, "Wow. You're—you're doing really well," anyway, and Reid smiles, open and honest and grateful._

_"Yeah?" Reid runs his long thin fingers back through his lank hair. "It's one of the hardest things I've ever done in my life."_

_He asks Nathan to talk to him, to take his mind off the pain and discomfort, and Nathan tells him about his week in ridiculous amounts of detail. Dull as it is, Dr. Reid listens intently, but doesn't ask questions or comment. He's constantly moving, and seemingly unaware of it—when he's not tapping his feet or drumming his fingers against his knees, he's twitchy with involuntary muscle spasms. It's disturbing, but Nathan keeps talking, does what Reid needs him to._

_He's running out of things to say when Reid suddenly tears off the heavy sweater he's wearing. He's red-faced and sweating as he pulls off more layers—and Nathan is startled to see how much clothing he's really wearing, how much it's bulked him up. He looked thin with all that on, and without it, he's just skin and bone, shivering in a plain white t-shirt that looks like it was made for a twelve year old._

_"Hot flashes," Reid explains with a wry, slightly embarrassed smile. He turns to pile the clothes up on the bed beside him, and for the first time Nathan sees the marks in the crook of Reid's elbow, little purple spidery lines. He takes the clothes, folds them, partly for something to do and partly because it makes him feel good, to look after Dr. Reid like this._

_"You're sweating," Nathan says, then, because the white t-shirt is so soaked it's almost transparent at the neckline and underarms, clinging to Reid's skin._

_"I'm sorry," says Reid, and crumples in on himself, head in his shaking hands, "I should go. I shouldn't have come today. I'm disgusting."_

_Reid is trembling so badly it's alarming, and Nathan wonders how he can do his job, how he can do_ anything _like this. "You're not disgusting," he says softly._

_Reid looks at him through his fingers. "Look at me," he says with a sad smile, but to Nathan, even bony and sweaty and miserable, he is beautiful._

_He wants to say so, but words are failing him, and so instead he finds himself prising Dr. Reid's clammy hands from his face and kissing him, stupid and inexpert, pressing their mouths together and tasting the sourness of Reid's lips and feeling the cold sweat on his skin and adoring every part of it. Reid, to his credit, is gentle when he pushes Nathan away, though whether it's due to reluctance or simply the lack of a steady hand, Nathan doesn't know._

_He expects explanation, excuses, the clear painful sting of rejection—but all Reid does is gather up his clothes and say, "I should go," once more, without acknowledging it. As if it never happened._

_And maybe that's worse._

***

Hotch is heading to the interrogation room when he sees Rossi coming towards him, a bottle of water in one hand. 

"Kid asked for this," Rossi says when they reach each other.

"And you got it for him?" Hotch asks, faintly surprised.

"It was the first thing he said that wasn't 'can I talk to Dr. Reid?'," Rossi replies with a sigh, "so I gave in."

"It's not going so well, then," Hotch gathers, feeling his heart sink a little bit. From Nathan's attitude on being brought in, he'd almost expected an easy confession.

"I can't get anything out of him," Rossi responds, and Hotch can sense his frustration—Dave _hates_ it when a suspect's hard to crack, when he can't get through to them.

"Nothing?"

"He's not admitting anything, and he's not denying anything," Rossi goes on. "He's barely even _saying_ anything, except requesting to see Dr. Reid." 

He gives Hotch a significant look, and Hotch frowns. "Let me try."

"Be my guest," Rossi says, opening the door.

Nathan is sitting straight-backed in his chair, staring into space, but he looks up when Hotch enters, gives a hesitant little smile in greeting which Hotch does not return.

"Can I speak to Dr. Reid?" he asks before Hotch has even sat down. Rossi takes a seat beside him, passes the water over, and Nathan murmurs a "thank you," always polite.

"Dr. Reid is busy," Hotch replies, "you can speak to me."

"I'd really like to speak to Dr. Reid," Nathan says. His boyish face looks almost apologetic, and Hotch feels a strange surge of anger that has nothing to do with what they've brought Nathan in for. He's angry that this kid has affected Reid's life in such a way, that this kid is interfering with Reid's ability to work, that this kid is just another in a long stream of screwed up aspects of Reid's life.

"You'll speak to me," Hotch says, a little louder, a little sterner, and Nathan goes quiet. He chews on his lower lip, the skin there flaky, spotted with blood in the middle where he's been worrying it. It's almost comforting to see some signs of distress, something to show that Nathan's perhaps _not_ perfectly happy to sit in an interrogation room as a murder suspect all day long. "You can start by telling me where you were at 3 o'clock this morning."

"I was out," Nathan says. "Walking."

"Do you usually go walking in the middle of the night?"

Nathan nods, seemingly unaware that this is something considered unusual. "I stopped taking my medication and now I can't sleep so well anymore. Walking helps me relax."

"You stopped taking your medication," Hotch repeats. He turns over a page in the file he brought in—Nathan's old file, now added to—and scans the list of drugs faxed over by Nathan's institution. Basic anti-depressants, anti-psychotics, and sleeping pills. "Why was that?"

"It was starting to make me not feel like a real person anymore," Nathan admits. "You know? The anti-depressants mostly—they just made me feel kind of numb. Gazy."

The kid still seems pretty gazy as far as Hotch is concerned. "Do you know why you're here, Nathan?"

Nathan nods. "You think I killed someone."

"We think you killed four people, Nathan. Four young women were found stabbed to death and we believe that it was your doing. Do you have anything to say in response to those accusations?"

Nathan shakes his head, vaguely. "No," he says, "except that I'd quite like to speak to Dr. Reid."

Hotch sighs. Decides to try a different approach. "Why? You think he can help you?" he asks. "Dr. Reid believes you're guilty just as much as we do."

It's an old tactic, that, usually used to turn two partners-in-crime against each other, and it's unsettling that Hotch has to resort to it in these circumstances. It's also extremely unlikely to work, considering that the last time Nathan saw Reid, it was with his arms around him, clutching him tight like a father or a brother, or—

"I don't think so," Nathan says, and offers a wan little smile.

But Hotch is momentarily speechless, knocked off his stride. Something has come to him, suddenly and seemingly without warning. "How would you describe your relationship with Dr. Reid, Nathan?" he demands.

Nathan says nothing for a moment, looking bewildered. "I—what do you mean?" he manages eventually.

Hotch hesitates, and Rossi, concerned, steps in. "What Agent Hotchner means—"

But Hotch cuts him off—he _needs_ to know, speaks without thinking, forgets for a moment about professionalism and relevance. "Were you and Dr. Reid in a sexual relationship with one another?"

Nathan's mouth opens but no words come out. He looks stunned. Hotch doesn't even want to _look_ at Rossi. "No, I—I—what would make you say that?" he stutters. It seems, at first, like lying.

"I listened to the tape of your psych evaluation with Agent Gideon," Hotch tells him, his voice coming out low like a hiss, "I know you had feelings for Dr. Reid back then, and I know Dr. Reid kept in contact with you over the three years that have passed since. It doesn't seem impossible that those feelings have persisted."

"Aaron," says Rossi in an undertone, but Hotch barely hears him.

"Even if they have, that doesn't mean—that doesn't mean they're _reciprocated_." Nathan seems shocked by the mere suggestion. "Why—why would you think that they were?"

"You can quit it with the innocent kid act, okay?" Hotch snaps, and it's harsher than he meant it, anger welling up inside him like bile. The look on Nathan's face makes him furious, and it's inexplicable, and all he wants is to get to the bottom of this and have the kid locked away. "The way he reacted to your involvement in this case is reason enough, and you know it."

For a moment Nathan simply looks at him, his eyes wide, and Hotch instantly starts to doubt himself, to feel foolish. Rossi is saying his name again, low like a warning, and then suddenly the door opens and Morgan enters with a handful of glossy papers, pictures from the crime scene.

"Morgan," says Rossi quickly, getting to his feet, "can you take over here?"

Morgan looks a little surprised, but nods, comes over to the desk. "Sure."

"A word, Aaron," Rossi presses, when Hotch doesn't move from his seat, still staring at Nathan, the kid looking like a fucking deer in the headlights, like somehow what Hotch said had never occurred to him.

He stands up, slowly, gathers his file and follows Rossi out of the room. Rossi doesn't even bother taking him to an office, just into the nearest quiet corner. "Wanna explain what that was all about?" he demands.

Hotch rubs at his forehead, frowning. "It's true," he says, "I listened to that tape, Dave. The kid admitted he had feelings for Reid, it's not—"

"It's not _relevant to the case_ , and you're damn well aware of that," Rossi interrupts. "What's your problem?"

"It's relevant to the case if Reid's in danger," is all Hotch can manage in response to that, and maybe that's a bullshit excuse but it's all that's going through his mind. 

"If Reid's in _danger_?" Rossi repeats, almost mockingly. "The kid's killing teenage prostitutes, Aaron, I'm pretty sure Reid's safe. Nathan had a crush three years ago—that doesn't mean anything, and it's sure as hell not the kind of thing you should be bringing up in the middle of an interrogation. You know that."

"Have you not seen the way Reid's reacting to all of this?" Hotch hisses. "Did you not see what happened when we brought Nathan in?"

"Yes, I saw, and yes, it's _weird_ , but it's also not relevant to the case, not to mention none of our business," Rossi replies. "If you think Reid is going to cause problems, you can take him off the case, but you know as well as I do that that the way you acted in there was inappropriate."

Hotch sighs and it comes out shaky. He rests his head against his palm, says quietly, "I'm just worried about him."

Rossi softens a little at this, places a comforting hand on his shoulder. "We all are. But don't let your concern cloud your judgement."

They're interrupted by a woman rushing over to them, her eyes wild. "You've arrested my son?" she demands.

"Mrs. Harris, please take a seat in here," says Rossi, trying to guide her into his office. "Your son has been arrested on suspicion of the murder of four young women." 

Just before the door swings shut, Hotch sees Mrs. Harris collapse into a chair, head in her hands. He can't imagine what it's like, as a parent, to have this happen _twice_ , but he can't quite bring himself to feel sympathy, not with his mind so preoccupied. Just then he hears Morgan's voice, and turns to see him exiting the interrogation room. Prentiss is at his side; she must have joined him.

"It's no use, man," Morgan says, "it's like talking to a brick wall."

"Couldn't even get anything out of him when we showed him pictures from the crime scene," Prentiss adds.

"The only thing he's giving us is that he wants to talk to Reid," Morgan says with a shrug.

Hotch sighs, rubs at his temples with his thumb and little finger, hand stretched across his forehead.

"Would it be so terrible?" Prentiss asks, tentatively, her voice lowered. "I mean—maybe Reid can get more out of him than we can. It's worth a shot, right?"

Hotch doesn't reply right away; considers it. It's not that he disagrees, that's the thing. He sees her point, but the idea of sending Reid in there with Nathan—he can't stand it. He doesn't know what it would do to Reid, for one thing (and he feels oddly irritated by the fact that Prentiss doesn't seem to have considered this), and after the ideas that he's put in Nathan's head, the possibility that Reid might just _return_ his feelings—it all seems too complicated, too risky, for reasons he can't put into words.

"Leave it a bit longer," he says eventually. "Let him sit. Let him think about it. Maybe if we give it enough time, he'll give up and be willing to talk to us instead."

"You think it's worth waiting?" Morgan asks, looking doubtful.

Hotch sighs. "Well, he can't kill anyone while he's here. Gather everyone in the conference room, I think we need to refine our theory."


	2. Chapter 2

"Nathan's not confessing?" Reid asks, prompting for answers when he realises no one is jumping to fill him in.

Prentiss and Morgan shake their heads. "He's not denying anything either, though, Reid," says Prentiss, "I wouldn't get your hopes up."

"But if he's not confessing, that's—that's a good sign, right?" Reid persists, agitated, clicking off the lid of his pen and replacing it, over and over. "Does he have an alibi, or—"

"He admitted to being out walking the streets at the time of the latest murder," Hotch cuts him off. "It doesn't look good, Reid."

Rossi enters, taking a seat. "I let his mother see him."

"Did you let her know we're planning on keeping him in overnight?" Hotch asks, and Rossi nods.

"You're keeping him in overnight?" Reid echoes.

"We're hoping it'll wear him down," Rossi explains, clearly not thinking about his choice of words, and Reid blanches, fingers tightening around the pen in his hand.

" _Wear him down?_ " he repeats. "You can't just _force_ a confession out of him by making him uncomfortable—"

"Reid," Morgan says, softly. "We're not trying to force anything. We're just giving him some time to decide what he wants to do."

"And in the meantime," Hotch adds, "I thought we could refine our profile a little more."

"I'm not sure what you need a profile for," Reid bites back, bitterly, "you clearly think you've already caught the unsub."

A tense silence. Hotch eyes Reid carefully, but Reid is staring at the desk now like a sullen teenager. "We still don't know anything more than we did this morning," Hotch replies slowly. "Whether it's Nathan or not, we need to be a little clearer on some parts of the murders. What triggered the unsub to start killing, why he decided to mimic certain aspects of the Weems case..."

"It could still just be a copycat killer," Reid says in a small voice, still not looking up at him.

"Exactly," says Hotch. "It's worth taking other ideas into consideration."

"If it's a copycat killer, you think it's someone else with a political motive?" Prentiss asks.

They begin to discuss the possibility, but no one can make a particularly strong case for any alternatives to Nathan Harris, and it only gets worse when JJ joins them, having just spoken to a bunch of motel receptionists in D.C. over the phone. None of them can give a very clear eye-witness account, she says, but they all remember a young guy, with a hood or hat pulled down and his head hung low to hide his face. They all agree on 'young', on 'shy', on 'polite', and no one can argue that it doesn't sound like Nathan.

Reid's agitation grows further when they begin to discuss the stressor, what caused the unsub to begin killing.

"If it is Nathan, he didn't start right after he was released from the hospital," says JJ, flicking through pages in the file. "That was six months ago, and the first murder was three months ago."

"So it wasn't his newfound freedom," says Rossi.

"Maybe he wanted to give the impression that he'd recovered," offers Prentiss. "Keep up appearances for a while, and then when he was no longer being watched like a hawk..."

"Could be. Sexual sadists are very good at faking it. Pretending they're just like everybody else," Rossi agrees.

"You think that's how he got out of the institution?" Morgan asks.

"Sure," Prentiss replies. "Lying, telling them what they want to hear, 'til he's considered a model patient and they can't think of any reason _not_ to let him back into society."

"Stop it!" snaps Reid, suddenly—so suddenly and so loudly that Prentiss actually _jumps_ , and everyone turns to look at him in surprise. He's clutching his pen so tightly that his knuckles have gone white, and he looks sweaty, unwell. "Stop talking about him like that! He's not manipulative—there's nothing in his personality to suggest that, and you know it. You're just— _inventing_ things to make your theory sound more convincing."

For a moment everybody is stunned into silence. Hotch tries to think of what to say, how to calm Reid down—but all he can focus on is the strength of emotion in his outburst, the _passion_ with which Reid talks about Nathan. Reid rarely shows such attachment to _anybody_. 

"We're just speculating, Reid," Morgan says quietly, leaning in, trying to get Reid to look him in the eye. "If you have reason to believe that Nathan couldn't have lied his way out of the institution, you can tell us."

Reid drops his head even lower. "He's always been honest with me," he mumbles, and he sounds so broken that it _kills_ Hotch to hear. He can't stand the idea that Nathan has weaved his way into Reid's life like this, manipulated him the same way he did everyone around him. Maybe he even got Reid on his side purely because he knew it might be useful when he eventually killed someone. He lied to Reid during their very first meeting and he's continued to lie for the past three years, and Reid can't even _see_ it. Hotch knows that he's being irrational, but this kid makes him sick—he's a parasite. 

"You said he wrote you letters," Prentiss says hesitantly. "Did he talk about feeling better? About his hopes for release?"

Reid frowns, sucks his lower lip into his mouth and says nothing for a moment—and it's not like he's trying to remember, more like he's trying to decide how much he wants to reveal, whether it's worth it. Hotch wants to know what the hell was in those letters that's got Reid protecting them like his life depends on it.

"Yeah," Reid says eventually. "But not—not like it was all he was thinking about. He wasn't fixated on leaving there at all. He didn't mind it. He just said they seemed to think he was doing better. I asked if he agreed with them and he said he thought so. That the urges were disappearing. He didn't make it into a big deal—he wasn't trying to convince me."

"Why did the two of you lose touch?" Rossi asks.

Reid gives him a look, a look that clearly shows how much he resents this, being brought into it and talked to like a witness. "He wasn't in the institution anymore. He had other things to focus on. Trying to find a college to get into, a part-time job, just...getting used to being in the real world again."

"So he was the one who stopped writing?" presses Rossi.

Reid throws down his pen, slumps back in his seat, rubs his hands over his tired face. "When he started talking about all that stuff, I—I just knew it meant he didn't really need me anymore. It started taking him longer to respond, and I felt like he was only doing it out of courtesy. He was moving on with his life and I thought—I thought I should let him do that. I didn't want him to cling to something that would always remind him of how things were in the past."

"So you were the first one to leave a letter unanswered?" Rossi prompts. Hotch doesn't like how much this is starting to sound like an interrogation, but it's necessary. It's either this, or they're going to end up having to get a warrant to search Reid's apartment, find those letters and have them plastered on the walls as evidence. The thought makes his stomach turn.

Reid nods. He looks at Hotch, choosing him suddenly and seemingly at random, shooting him a pleading expression that just about breaks Hotch's heart. They all know what's coming.

"When was that?" Rossi asks.

"There were...there were a couple that I didn't respond to. I don't know exactly...when the last one was," Reid says, slowly.

"Yes you do, Reid," Morgan murmurs, hand on Reid's shoulder, rubbing soothingly, encouragingly.

Reid gives them the date, in a voice that's shaky with threatening tears. JJ checks the file, swears under her breath and slides it across to Hotch. It's a week and four days before the first murder. About as long as Nathan might wait for a response. He doesn't have to say so—everybody knows, and the silence in the room is stifling.

Suddenly Reid gets to his feet. "I have to—uh," he says, his voice high, frantic, "I have to get—get out of here, so—"

And he's gone, door slamming shut behind him, the sound of it ringing out in Hotch's ears.

"I'll go," Morgan says, quietly, starting to stand up, but Hotch holds up his hand.

"No, I will," he says sharply, sliding the file across to Morgan. "And this discussion isn't over. If anyone has any more theories, please, _God_ , share them."

With that, he goes, finds Reid in the men's room, hunched over the sink and fighting back tears. Reid glances up to see Hotch in the mirror, and then ducks his head again, ashamed.

"I just—I can't deal with it, I can't deal with the fact that this might be my fault, I can't—" he panics, hands slippery against the rim of the sink as he tries to hold onto it.

"This isn't your fault, Reid," Hotch says, firmly. "You were trying to help him by cutting off contact. You said so yourself. You didn't want to remind him of his past—it was a very thoughtful, smart thing to do."

"But I _wanted_ to keep writing to him. I wanted it so much, Hotch. It was so hard to make myself stop but I told myself I was doing the right thing and—" his breath catches, "—I _wasn't_ , if I'd just kept writing—" 

"Remember Gideon's verdict after Nathan's evaluation?"

"That it wasn't whether or not he would kill anybody, it was when," Reid rattles off instantly, like it's something that's been haunting him all these years, "but Hotch—I—I—oh, god," his voice breaks off in what sounds like a sob, and Hotch comes closer. Reid turns around, looks into his eyes. "I should have let him die," he almost whispers, sounding terrified. "Oh god, I should have let him die."

"There's no way you could have known," Hotch says, trying to keep calm, but he feels like anything he says will be useless and the frustration of it is killing him. He knows how Reid feels, knows what it's like to have regrets this powerful. "Don't do this to yourself."

Reid is shaking his head back and forth, biting down on his lip. Hotch can see how hard he's trying not to cry, and he almost wishes that he would, would just let it out. Hotch hardly has any words left in him, and so he just says, "Come here," gestures awkwardly, lets Reid into his arms and holds him, because just for this moment it isn't strange, it isn't inappropriate. It isn't anything but necessary.

His hands tensed against the soft wool of Reid's sweater, he waits for the dam to break. It doesn't. Reid clutches at his back like a helpless child but not a sound comes out of him. Hotch is uncomfortable, his body stiff, but it seems that this is all that Reid needs, clinging to Hotch like it will somehow fix things, like Hotch can make it better, make it all go away.

"I think you should take the rest of the day off," Hotch says quietly, when it gets to be too much, when the heat of Reid's body is making him sweat and his skin is beginning to prickle from the proximity.

Reid pulls back, slow, and it's a moment before they look each other in the eye. "I want to see him," he says, then, and his voice is still weak, but certain.

Hotch considers him, his tired eyes and his mussed-up hair, his guilt and his pain. He thinks of the case, of Nathan Harris sitting silently in a room a few walls away, waiting patiently and refusing to talk. 

"I'll think about it. If he hasn't given us anything by tomorrow, then—maybe." Reid nods. "But don't think about that now," Hotch says, "go home. Get some rest." 

The _please_ is on the tip of his tongue; he has to bite it back.

***

_Dr. Reid is true to his word, returning the following week even though Nathan was_ sure _he wouldn't. He looks a lot better, though still thin, still carrying his trauma in the way that he moves and the darkness in his eyes. He has a gift with him, and this time it's not a book._

_"Notepaper?" Nathan asks, curiously, taking it out of its little gift bag._

_"I thought we could write to each other," Reid says, with a shy smile. "I got you—I got you a pen, too, if you—" He takes the bag and turns it upside down, and a fountain pen falls out, onto the bed between them._

_For a moment Nathan doesn't say anything. He doesn't know what to say. This isn't the rejection he expected, and yet it still hurts, like being kicked in the gut. "Is this because—" he starts, eventually, when the silence and the not-knowing is too painful to bear, but Dr. Reid cuts him off._

_"I'll still come visit," he says hurriedly, "it's just—it's hard for me to keep any kind of regular schedule with my job and everything."_

_Nathan looks down at the notepaper, runs his fingernails along the edges. "How often?"_

_"When I can," he promises. "But I want to keep in touch with you in the meantime." He offers a tiny smile, tentative, ducking his head to try and get Nathan to look him in the eye._

_Nathan looks up at him distrustfully. It feels like something is crumbling down around them; as if he's ruined whatever it was that they had. And Reid looks guilty, and Nathan doesn't want any of this, doesn't want Reid's pity. He knows it was foolish to ever think they could be something, that Reid could_ want _him, a sick teenager in a mental hospital, but he had clung to the idea like a security blanket and it hurts to have it ripped away._

_"My—my Mom is in a place like this," Reid says, quietly. "I write her every week. It's—it's amazing the things you can say in letters. It'll be just like visiting, I promise."_

_Nathan doesn't believe him, but he takes the notepaper and pen anyway, and Reid smiles. When he doesn't show the following week, Nathan settles down cross-legged on his bed and writes his first letter, pretending Dr. Reid is sitting across from him._

***

Reid seems a little better the next day; it's the rest of them who are worn-out, pessimistic, frustrated. They spent the rest of yesterday taking turns with Nathan, trying to get something, _anything_ out of him. Hotch even sent Garcia in there, despite her protests. But none of it was any use. Nathan's face was blank when they showed him pictures of the victims, and his body language gave nothing away. Any direct question received only a hesitant shake of the head, not so much a _no_ as a nervous twitch. The kid didn't ask for a lawyer, didn't even ask to see his mother again. 

Reid missed all of it, went home and (Hotch hopes) slept, and today he's no longer shaky and anxious. In fact, there's little emotion visible in him at all, but he seems ready to tackle whatever the day will throw at him and that's all they can really ask for. If he's had to detach himself emotionally from the situation—well, maybe that's not such a bad thing.

The team have had a couple of discussions, and it's generally agreed upon that Reid is their last hope. Nathan may well be willing to speak if it's with Reid, and they can't pass up that opportunity. Hotch presents it as a new tactic: using Reid to get closer to Nathan, sending in someone he trusts. Morgan is the only one to argue against the idea, and Hotch has sent him and Prentiss back to D.C. to try and talk to the prostitutes there and see if they can get any more eyewitness accounts. (It's a difficult task, he knows—prostitutes are always cagey around law enforcement, even in cases like these—but it's always worth a try and they're running out of options.)

"Don't get too heavy," Hotch tells Reid, "just talk to him like you usually would. Let him guide the conversation. Treat it that way—like a conversation, not an interrogation. See how that goes and then we'll reconvene. If you're making headway we'll send you back in with some questions."

Reid nods, swallows a little nervously as he gets to his feet. He brushes himself down as though it's necessary, straightening out his blazer and tie. Takes a deep breath.

"Reid," Hotch warns, as Reid starts to head towards the interrogation room. "I'm putting a lot of trust in you with this."

"Yes sir," Reid says.

Hotch knows he should give them privacy, but after a few minutes sitting at his desk and being completely unable to focus on anything, he heads out again, hovers outside the interrogation room. Reid has his back to the window, but Hotch can see Nathan and the kid is _smiling_ as Reid talks to him. At first Hotch is angered by it, but when he looks a little closer he sees a sadness in Nathan's eyes. Reid is the one leading the conversation, animated, talking with his hands. To Hotch's surprise, he sees Reid reach across the table and take both of Nathan's hands in his, sees Nathan flinch but allow it, sees Reid squeeze and lean in close.

Hotch can't stand it. He pushes open the door, and the two of them instantly spring apart like guilty teenagers caught fooling around, and Hotch feels sick.

"A word, please, Reid," he grits out, and Reid apologizes quietly to Nathan before obeying.

The second the door is shut behind them, Reid's agitation is back, but it's different this time—a sort of excitement instead of anxious dread. "He's innocent, Hotch," he says, bouncing on the balls of his feet and shooting glances at Nathan through the window.

"He told you that?" Hotch asks, carefully.

"He didn't have to," Reid replies. "Can we—we need to gather everyone in the conference room, we have to start focusing on alternatives—the, the copycat theory, the political angle—" He's talking a mile a minute, already starting to hurry off in the other direction.

Hotch grabs his arm, holds him still. "What did Nathan say to you?" he asks.

"Well, he—he didn't have much to say but—I just _know_ , Hotch, I can't explain it," Reid babbles, and _shit_ , just when Hotch thought Reid was really coming to terms with this—"He didn't do it. He didn't, I swear to you."

Just then, Morgan and Prentiss return, striding across the bullpen towards them. Their faces are grim, but Hotch sees that Reid's doesn't fall upon seeing them.

"How did it go?" Hotch asks.

"Like pulling teeth," Morgan replies with a sigh. "Wanna get everyone together?"

A couple of minutes later, everyone is gathered in the conference room for Morgan and Prentiss to report back. Reid is still jittery, unable to sit still, and the hopeful expression on his face is killing Hotch.

"Quite a few of the prostitutes we talked to recognised Nathan from the picture," Prentiss says, choosing her words carefully, eyeing Reid. "They couldn't confirm that he'd been a client at any point, but they knew him. Said they'd seen him around."

Before anyone else has a chance to respond, Reid is jumping in. "That doesn't mean anything though, right? I mean—they recognised him the last time, and he hadn't done anything wrong, he'd just been watching."

Prentiss looks a little taken aback by Reid's reaction, and Morgan shoots Hotch a look that plainly says _told you that was a bad idea._ "Reid..." Prentiss says gently. She reaches out to touch his arm and he snatches it away from her.

"No, stop it," he snaps, "stop it, stop—jumping to conclusions, we still don't have any concrete proof—"

"Reid," says Hotch abruptly, unable to take it anymore. "Go to my office. I'll be with you in a moment."

"But sir—"

" _Now._ "

Quickly, quietly, embarrassed, Reid leaves the room, and the tension he leaves behind is palpable.

"Kid's spiralled right back around into denial," sighs Morgan dejectedly. "God, it's painful."

"You think he should be taken off the case?" asks Rossi, and it's clear from his tone that _he_ does.

"Probably," Hotch says. "Listen—I'm going to speak to Nathan quickly, find out exactly what the two of them talked about. Reid was doing so well, I don't—" he cuts himself off, getting to his feet with a sigh.

He enters the interrogation room swiftly, doesn't even bother taking a seat. Nathan looks up at him and for once actually seems nervous.

"What did Dr. Reid say to you?" Hotch asks sharply, getting straight to the point. 

Nathan bites his lip, his brow creased. "He said he was going to help me," he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. He almost sounds apologetic. "He said he knew I was innocent and that he would do everything in his power to get me out of here."

Hotch, jaw clenched, stares at the kid for a long moment. Nathan ducks his head, looks down at his hands like a child being scolded. Hotch leaves the room without another word. 

He finds Reid in his office, in an unsettlingly similar pose, sitting by Hotch's desk with his hands fidgeting in his lap. He looks up as Hotch comes in, speaks before Hotch has even sat down.

"You're going to have me taken off the case, aren't you?" he asks, his voice small and sad.

"Reid," Hotch says. He tries to be gentle but his voice comes out rough, harsh. "Do you have any idea of how much you've complicated things?" His anger swells up inside of him, gathers up other emotions like a wave. "You _cannot_ make promises like that to a suspect—I don't care how strongly you feel for him, _he could be our unsub_ , and I trusted you to treat him as such."

"But he's innocent, Hotch," Reid says, his voice pleading.

"We may not have enough evidence to convict him," Hotch says, "but what we have so far strongly suggests that he's guilty and you _know_ that, I know you do, you're just refusing to see it." Reid says nothing. "I have to take you off the case, Reid."

Still, nothing—but when their eyes meet, he looks absolutely crestfallen, and Hotch has to look away.

For the rest of the day, Nathan still refuses to give them anything, eerily calm and quiet, not even mentioning Reid anymore. Hotch has the team carrying out pointless tasks for the rest of the day—tracking down the type of weapon (turns out it's a basic hunting knife; local stores tell them they sell so many that they couldn't possibly remember every customer), and heading down to the morgue to examine the bodies once more (finding nothing new). 

They haven't been stumped like this on a case for a long time now, and Hotch can't stand it, can't even look at Nathan sitting patiently in the interrogation room because every time he does he wants to scream, wants to smash the window with his fist. 

They can keep Nathan in pre-charge detention for one more night, so they do. It seems they don't have any other options at this point. The team goes home late, defeated, frustrated, and Hotch has another fitful night of sleep ahead of him.

He has finally drifted off properly when the phone rings. It's six in the morning, and Hotch awakes with a start. He grapples for the phone, thinking, in his sleep-addled daze, of Reid, and is surprised to hear a different voice on the other end of the line.

"Agent Hotchner? Detective Barnes with the D.C. police. We have another victim."

***

"Nathan's been under surveillance all night," Hotch says, pacing the length of the conference room. "We know this wasn't him." 

"Do we know for sure that this murder is even linked to the others?" asks Morgan.

"Victim was a nineteen year old prostitute by the name of Lynne Davies," JJ says, entering the room and bringing up the photos of the crime scene. "Found stabbed to death in a motel room. Evidence of sexual intercourse prior to her death. No words were carved into the body and no hair was removed, but in all other respects it's very similar to the previous murders."

"No hesitation marks in the stab wounds," remarks Rossi. "He's growing more confident."

"You said the body was found at the Gateway Motel?" asks Prentiss. "That's a little out of the way, isn't it?"

Garcia, laptop perched on her knees, brings up the geographical profile. "Way out of the way," she agrees, doing a quick calculation in her head. "The other motels where the bodies were found—even the closest one is at least six miles away from there."

"So what do you think? Is it connected?" Morgan asks.

"It's gotta be, right?" Prentiss says. "I mean—I was as convinced as anybody about Nathan Harris, but—there's too many similarities here."

"Maybe he went a little further away because of the media coverage of the murders," JJ suggests. 

Hotch checks his watch. "We can only keep Nathan for about another five hours," he says, "so we'd better move fast. Morgan, Prentiss, Rossi—I want you to go to the motel, check out the crime scene and talk to the staff there. Anything that doesn't fit with the rest of the murders, take note of it. We'll stay here. Keep us updated."

Hotch can barely work for the next few hours, unable to concentrate. He keeps thinking of Reid, wondering how he's doing. He thinks of calling him, but decides against it. Then he thinks of going to speak to Nathan once more, and this he does, a last-ditch attempt at getting a confession out of the kid. He knows, deep down, that it doesn't quite fit with the profile, but there's a chance that Nathan might be a little bit proud of his kills, protective—and if he finds out they've turned their attention to another guy, he might snap.

But no luck. Nathan seems a little surprised to hear there's been another murder, but all he says is "So does that mean I'm free to go, or—?"

It's nearing midday already when the others call from the car on their way back from D.C.

"Receptionist described him as quiet. Wearing a hood," Morgan says. "Sounds like our guy."

"Nothing out of place at the crime scene," Prentiss chimes in. "Could be a run-of-the-mill prostitute murder, unrelated, but—it's pretty much exactly the same as the first two murders in the case. Stab wounds extremely similar, only difference is they're more severe, more certain."

"Which makes sense," Rossi cuts in, "if it's the unsub's fifth time."

"So what about the hair? And the word carved into Ashley Hogg's body?" Hotch asks, because it's nagging at him, because they're _anomalies_ and they can't just be brushed aside.

"Maybe the unsub just wanted to get our attention, throw us off-track," Prentiss suggests.

"Maybe he was just trying out a different technique. Seeing what worked for him. Probably heard about Ronald Weems on the news back then," comes Rossi's voice.

"Or maybe it really was a cry for help," Hotch says, the words coming almost automatically, like he's profiling out of habit, without truly engaging his brain. He rubs his forehead, fights back a yawn.

"So are you going to let Nathan Harris go?" asks Prentiss after a pause.

"No more reason to keep him, I suppose," Hotch replies, though there's a sinking feeling in his gut at the thought of it, of setting Nathan free. Some sick part of him wants to keep the kid locked up forever, but they have no reason to, and it's pure spite that churns in his stomach, a need for revenge.

He's about to hang up when Morgan says, "Hotch? You gonna let Reid know?"

Hotch hadn't even considered _not_ telling him. "He'll be relieved," he replies, but can't quite bring himself to say _to hear that Nathan's innocent_ , somehow not yet convinced of it.

"You think maybe we should wait for this to blow over first?" Morgan asks.

He has a point, but—Hotch can imagine Reid sitting at home, worrying, and he hates it. He doesn't know what the best course of action is.

He sends Nathan home himself (gets only a "thank you, sir" in response from the kid, and an icy glare from Mrs. Harris), and eats his lunch alone in his office, staring at the phone. Morgan, Prentiss and Rossi return, and a heavy feeling settles over them all. They're no closer to solving this case than they were before, and it almost feels like they're _further_ from it, their one suspect now walking free. 

Hotch calls Reid when he can no longer stand it. Reid picks up the phone instantly, like he's been waiting by it for any news at all, but as soon as Hotch greets him, there's a knock at his office door.

"Just a minute," he calls sharply, irritated, and then, into the receiver, "We sent Nathan Harris home." He tries to approach it in as much of a businesslike way as he can, and pretends not to hear the sigh of sheer relief he gets in response. "There was another murder last night," Hotch goes on—it won't have reached the news yet, Reid won't know—and then the knock on his door is repeated, sounding more urgent this time.

"So he's innocent?" Reid asks.

"It looks that way— _hold on_ ," he calls in the general direction of the door, but this time it actually opens. JJ walks in, arms folded, and Hotch looks at her in surprise. "I have to go," he says into the phone.

"Am I back on the case?" Reid asks in a small, hopeful voice.

JJ is tapping her foot impatiently. "What? No, Reid, no," Hotch says, distractedly—and god, he can practically _see_ Reid's face fall, "stay home, get some more rest. You've had a difficult couple of days. I'll call you once we solve this thing."

"Please do," Reid says, meekly. "Goodbye, sir."

Hotch hangs up, the second he does, JJ starts talking. "A friend of Lynne Davies's just reported her as missing."

"And?" Hotch prompts, puzzled by her urgency.

"Apparently Lynne was meeting with her boyfriend last night. Her friend was worried because the guy's known to be abusive—she and Lynne were supposed to meet for lunch today and when Lynne didn't show and she couldn't get in touch with her—"

"Her boyfriend?" Hotch interrupts.

"We have a name, sir. Garcia's tracking him down right now."

Within minutes, they're in the car, on their way to an apartment in D.C., owned by a Nick Reynolds. They find him slumped in the bedroom in tears, shaking, shirt soaked with blood. An equally bloody hunting knife lies on the carpet beside him. A confession is hardly necessary.

***

They help the police wrap up the Reynolds case, and it transpires that he has solid alibis for the nights of the previous murders, leaving the team with no suspects left. After a quick dinner at a local restaurant, it's getting late, and Hotch is stressed, can't face the thought of driving right back to Quantico with nothing. He decides to drop by McPherson Square before heading back—  
their only lead now is the other prostitutes in the area. Morgan and Prentiss have protested, said they've already gotten everything they're gonna get from those women, but Hotch is at a loss, fists clenched around the steering wheel. They have to do _something._

"We had to let Nathan go anyway," says JJ quietly from the back seat.

"Yeah, we were running out of time," Morgan adds. "Don't beat yourself up, Hotch. If it's him, we'll get him."

Hotch hasn't even mentioned Nathan, but they've clearly picked up on what's bothering him. They still don't have any proof that Nathan's the unsub, but to let him go and then find out that he still _could_ be—it's driving Hotch crazy. They leapt to conclusions with Lynne Davies, assumed too quickly that her murder was relevant, and if they'd only thought it through and reached this conclusion more quickly—maybe they'd still have Nathan.

They split up, and Hotch and Prentiss have been speaking to an entirely unhelpful woman for a couple of minutes when Hotch notices a man watching them from across the street. He's maybe in his mid-30s, dressed in a suit and darting looks at them from where he stands. Anxious, twitchy. Suspicious.

"Do you know that man?" he asks the woman they're with, and shit, he's _really_ grasping at straws now, and he knows it, can feel the case slipping through his fingers with every second that ticks by.

But the woman doesn't seem surprised by the question. She takes a drag of her cigarette and rolls her eyes. "Oh, _that_ guy," she says. "Sure. He's nice enough. Likes to pretend we don't really do what we do, though, if you know what I mean."

Hotch glances back over the street—and he's surprised to see that the man is crossing, now, heading towards them, darting nervous looks back over his shoulder.

"Are you the police?" he asks when he reaches them, still looking around him huntedly.

"FBI," Prentiss frowns, "why?"

"Can we talk somewhere," he starts, and then, eyeing the woman beside them, " _away_ from here?"

Prentiss exchanges a look with Hotch like she's thinking the guy is crazy. "Sure," she says. "Come with us."

Further up the street, in what the man apparently deems a less seedy-looking area, he stops suddenly and takes a deep breath. "I—I saw someone," he stammers. "I saw someone with Summer the night she got killed."

Prentiss gives Hotch another look, her eyebrows raised. "Summer?"

"The hooker," the man says in an undertone. "The one who—" he lowers his voice even further, looking down at his feet, "they said on the news she had a word carved into her stomach, and I—I think I saw the guy who did it."

"Why are you only coming forward now?" Hotch asks suspiciously.

"I was one of her _clients_ ," the man says. "I have a wife, I have kids, I couldn't just—"

"All right, all right," Prentiss cuts him off, looking faintly disgusted. "Listen, can you describe the man you saw?"

The man nods. "Yeah, yeah, I can do that, he um—he was young, maybe only a teenager," he says, "and he had dark hair, brown, curly." This time, the look Prentiss exchanges with Hotch is loaded with meaning. "There was something odd about him but I didn't think much of it until I saw the news, and—"

Hotch fumbles with the file in his hand, finds Nathan Harris's photo and whips it out, holding it up to the man. His eyes light up with recognition. "That's him!" he cries, and Hotch's stomach twists.

"Can you tell us when this was?" Prentiss interrupts, starting to scribble things down on her notepad.

"Yeah, yeah, it was Wednesday. Wednesday morning. Maybe—about 2am."

The morning Ashley Hogg was killed. Hotch is turning his back and walking down the street in an instant. Behind him, he can hear Prentiss hurrying to get the man's name, assuring him she'll keep it out of the press. Hotch fumbles for his phone, dials Rossi.

"Meet us at the car right now," he says. "We're going to Nathan Harris's apartment."

He hangs up before Rossi can even ask why.

***

_Dr. Reid is right._

_It's amazing, the things you can say in letters._

***

For the second time, the team find themselves standing in front of the door to Nathan Harris's apartment, ready to make an arrest. But this time, there are no pleasantries. They yell, and they pound on the door, and when that doesn't work, Morgan kicks it open, because they don't have time to waste. 

Nathan is nowhere to be found.

"Shit," Morgan bursts out, "he's probably looking for another victim."

Hotch is tearing the kid's bedroom apart before he's even completely aware of what he's doing, but it's Morgan who finds the laptop shoved under the bed.

"It's password-protected."

"Call Garcia," Hotch shoots back, rummaging through drawers in the bedside table, and Morgan disappears next door with his phone in one hand and Nathan's laptop in the other.

"What exactly are we looking for?" Prentiss asks.

Hotch, jaw clenched tight, shakes his head. "We need to find out where he is."

"I don't think we're gonna find that out from his sock drawer, Hotch," JJ says gently, with a hand on his shoulder that he shakes off.

"Then we're looking for evidence," he snaps. "Don't just stand there."

He knows they don't have a warrant, knows that unless they track Nathan down and manage to arrest him _and_ get a confession out of him tonight, they're on very shaky ground, but—the thought that the kid's still out there, that he might have a woman in a motel room _right now_ and they just don't know _where_ —

He can hear Morgan talking in the other room, and he tries to calm down, to have faith in Garcia. The kid's bound to have left _something_ incriminating on his laptop, because Hotch can't find anything in his room, no weapons or diaries or anything, really, to suggest he's not a normal nineteen year old boy. The books on the shelves all seem to have similar themes, true crime, but—that's hardly something they can use as evidence. He wonders if they could have this wrong, if the man from before was lying or mistaken, if it's all a big misunderstanding—but he _knows_ that Nathan is guilty. He can feel it.

"Got it!" Morgan shouts suddenly, coming back into the room, laptop balanced on his forearms as he cradles the phone between ear and shoulder. "Thanks, baby girl." He perches on the kid's bed, looks up at Hotch. "What am I looking for?"

"Internet history," Hotch says immediately.

"Right," says Morgan, looking, "there's only one page in his recently viewed sites—he was looking up directions."

Hotch's heart leaps. "Where to?" Morgan clicks, frowns, is silent for so long that Hotch wants to explode. "What?" he urges, "what is it?"

"That's—" Morgan says, peering at the screen, "that's Reid's street." Hotch's blood runs cold; he barely hears what comes next. "JJ, isn't that Reid's street?"

JJ hurries forward, leans over his shoulder. Her eyes go wide. "That's his address."

Hotch tries to keep calm, but it feels like the room sways around him, like he's losing his grip. "We need to go," he says firmly, " _now_. Reid is in trouble."

He rushes from the room, and the others follow him. "Um, why exactly do we think Reid is in trouble?" Prentiss asks, trotting to catch up with him. "You told him we let Nathan go, right? He probably just wanted to meet with him and catch up."

Hotch shakes his head. He almost feels faint; he grabs onto the doorframe to keep himself steady and doesn't turn around. "Nathan Harris has been sexually attracted to Reid for three years," he manages to force out. "And given what Nathan usually tends to do to people he's sexually attracted to—"

He can't even finish the sentence. There is stunned silence from behind him, and then all of sudden, everyone seems to leap into action.

"I'll stay here," says Rossi. Hotch remembers how Dave had scoffed at the notion of Nathan going after Reid earlier—the danger clearly feels a lot more real to him now. "I'll call the police over, they can conduct a more thorough search of the apartment and we'll keep guard in case Nathan comes back here before you reach Reid's."

"I can give you directions," JJ tells Hotch, already on her way, pushing past him at the doorway, and the two of them begin to head down the corridor, Morgan and Prentiss in tow.

At Reid's apartment, they give no warning. They are running on adrenaline, on frantic worry, and it's Hotch who is breaking down the door now, throwing his full weight at it with no concern for the pain it brings. All he can think about is Reid, Reid ending up like all those girls, sprawled on a bed and bleeding out.

Morgan leaps in to help him, knocks the door off its hinges and they're in, Hotch first with the others following, guns at the ready, hearts in their throats. He heads straight for the bedroom, which means he finds them before anyone else does. The sight is his own; his eyes meet Reid's and there is a lifetime there in the split-second it takes for the others to reach them. 

Reid is perched on the edge of the bed, his arms folded around himself, his body hunched over. The bedsheets are strewn halfway across the floor, the pillows crooked. He is shirtless and barefoot, his hair a mess, the sheets tangled around his ankles. The zipper of his pants is undone. Nathan's standing, unable to stay quite still and mostly dressed, though Hotch spots a discarded sweater on the floor that he doesn't recognise as Reid's. Both of them look so guilty, so ashamed, their faces flushed and sweaty—and somehow Hotch knows, knows that this wasn't all Nathan's doing. Nathan does not have a weapon in his hand, and the look that Reid shoots the kid a moment later is one that says _sorry_ , plain and simple, a look of regret. He hasn't been forced. He entered into this situation willingly, and it makes Hotch feel sick, makes him want to drop his gun and run from the room.

It's Prentiss who gathers herself together first, crosses the room to Nathan and cuffs him without a word. He doesn't protest—offers his wrists to her, in fact, in silent acceptance. 

Prentiss leads Nathan out of the room, and the others stay, uncertain of the next step, shell-shocked, lost for words. And then Morgan goes to Reid, helps him up, and Reid won't look any of them in the eye now, his tangled hair hanging down in front of his face. 

"Do you wanna come to the station?" Morgan asks him in an undertone, and Reid nods.

Hotch looks around the room for something for Reid to put on—but then he sees Reid dropping to the floor, snatching up Nathan's sweater and pulling it over his head. He clutches it tight around him as he follows them out. 

Nobody speaks.

***

Hotch leaves the others to deal with Nathan, sits in his office instead with Reid. He doesn't even consider the choice; he's been by Reid's side since the moment they left the apartment. The others are concerned too, of course, but they still manage to focus on wrapping up the case—while to Hotch it seems as though it doesn't matter, all of a sudden, he doesn't _care_. 

They've brought Reid a blanket and a hot drink out of habit—it's what they do with all survivors, and Hotch still can't think of it in those terms without feeling ill, faint. Reid still won't look at anyone, and is sitting on the spare chair in Hotch's office with his knees drawn in to his chest and his arms wrapped around his legs, clutching the mug that's turning his pale hands pink. If Nathan still won't give them anything, they're going to have to interrogate Reid as well, but—Hotch can't even stand to think of that, not looking at Reid now, weak and trembling and mortified.

It feels like hours, but it's only a few minutes that pass before the door opens and Morgan comes in. There's tension in the set of his shoulders, and Hotch can sense his reluctance to give the news.

"He confessed," he says, simply, eyes darting from Reid to Hotch and back again.

Reid seems to sink in on himself even further, curling up small like he wants to disappear. The steam of his drink obscures his face, now, curls the wisps of hair at his temples. The color is beginning to come back to his cheeks but he says nothing, doesn't move.

"Thank you," Hotch says to Morgan, and Morgan nods and hesitates, hovers in the doorway, clearly wanting to go to Reid. Hotch gives him a single nod, and he leaves. Hotch glances at the clock. "It's late," he says to Reid, keeping his voice as gentle as he can. "I think you should come home with me. You shouldn't go back to your apartment tonight." 

It's an order, not an offer, but he doesn't say so. His tone makes it clear. The thought of Reid returning to his home, seeing the door kicked in and probably replaced with crime scene tape by now, the mess in his room, the bed where he and Nathan almost...

Reid's shoulders lift in a sort of shrug, but he says nothing. Hotch has to help him to his feet.

The journey is made in silence, because Reid can't quite speak yet and Hotch can't think of anything he should say. He thinks of offering sympathy, comfort—but all the words that come to mind seem false and insincere. His chest hurts when he glances beside him, sees Reid curled up against the car door, head resting against the cool glass of the window.

Jessica is still up when they get in, and she can't hide her alarm when she sees Reid.

"It's been a tough night," Hotch tells her in greeting, explanation. He looks back at Reid, who is standing clutching the sleeves of Nathan's sweater in his fists and looking slightly dazed. "Um—Spencer, Jessica—I think you met at the funeral."

Reid looks at her, and recognition suddenly dawns on his face. "Uh huh," he manages, "hi."

"Hi," Jessica replies cautiously, looking concerned. "I'll get out of your way."

Just then, Jack appears in the hall, peering around the corner at them, and to Hotch's surprise, Reid manages a little smile. "Hey, little guy," he murmurs, his voice raw as he gives Jack an awkward little wave. Jack smiles shyly, ducks back around the corner.

"I put him to bed two hours ago," sighs Jessica, "sorry. He waits up for you sometimes."

"I know. Don't worry about it," Hotch says. "I'll be there in a minute to tuck him in."

She nods, and they exchange goodnights before she heads to bed. Hotch shrugs off his jacket, hanging it up. "Jessica has been staying with me to help out with Jack," he explains, "I'm not sure if I mentioned it." He turns back around to see Reid standing awkwardly in the middle of his living room. "You can have my bed," Hotch tells him, "I'll take the couch."

"Oh, no, I—" Reid begins to protest, but Hotch cuts him off.

"You need as good a night's sleep as you can get," he says. "I'll hear no more on the matter."

Reid manages a smile, a tight, uncertain one, and Hotch feels his lips twitch, but he's not ready yet; he can't make his body relax when it doesn't want to and there's still so much tension in him. 

"Follow me," he says, and leads Reid down the hall.

Reid stands awkwardly in the middle of Hotch's bedroom, then, his arms clutched around himself, his back hunched. 

"I'll find you a towel and a toothbrush," says Hotch. "Do you need something to sleep in?"

Reid shakes his head quickly, looking embarrassed. "No, please, Hotch, don't put yourself out."

But Hotch doesn't _mind_ ; it almost feels right looking after Reid like this, as strange as it is to have his young colleague in his bedroom. It's the least he can do, in a way, because he feels guilty, guilty for telling Reid they'd let Nathan go, for not connecting the dots more quickly, for not piecing the puzzle together at the very beginning and anticipating what might come of this case. He knows it's pointless to dwell on it, and it's one of the things he's been working so hard on, his desire to change the past. It can be all-consuming; sometimes he can't stop himself going over every second, every moment that he could have taken a different action if only he'd known...

"Hotch?" says Reid quietly, shaking him from his thoughts.

"Right." Hotch turns to leave. "I'm going to tuck Jack in. I'll be back in a moment."

After giving his son a vague and not entirely helpful explanation as to what Dr. Reid is doing in their house so late at night, Hotch kisses Jack goodnight and then goes to find Reid a spare towel and toothbrush. His bedroom door is almost closed when he returns, but he enters without thinking out of habit, and starts when he sees Reid standing by the bed in only a pair of boxers that look loose and baggy around his skinny thighs. 

"Ah—sorry," he says quickly, handing Reid his things. 

Reid nods hurriedly, almost looking like he's _blushing_ , and Hotch tries not to stare at how long Reid's legs are, how he can see the thick whorl of a scar in the skin of Reid's knee where he was shot, how the waistband of his boxers cling to his bony hips. He tries not to think about how he has come from Jack to Reid, checking up on them as though he has the same responsibility for both. He brings the back of his hand to his forehead, feels the sweat there. He needs to go to bed. He leaves the room without another word.

Back in the living room, lying on the sofa, his mind is running a mile a minute, and he has the sinking feeling that he may not be able to sleep after all. But his body is more exhausted from the events of the day than he realises, and he's out like a light within minutes. 

He wakes an indeterminate amount of time later to a sound like a cry, and he thrashes under his blanket, disoriented. His living room slowly takes shape around him in the dark and he remembers Reid, and he's stumbling dizzy to his bedroom before he's even fully awake. He meets Jessica in the hall, hovering outside the spare room she's been sleeping in, looking tired and confused.

"I thought it was Jack," she murmurs, looking towards Hotch's bedroom.

"I'll handle it," Hotch tells her, "go back to bed."

He pushes his bedroom door open gently, sees Reid curled up tight, the sheets like a cocoon around his trembling body. He's whimpering in his sleep, clutching fistfuls of the sheets, his face screwed up in a grimace. Hotch approaches him, places a tentative hand on his shoulder. Hotch can feel the heat of his skin.

Reid awakens instantly, draws in a sudden gasp of breath and clutches at Hotch's wrist so tightly that it _hurts_. His eyes are wide and he looks utterly lost, panicked.

"Reid," Hotch says, "Reid, it's okay. You were having a nightmare." Reid stares blankly, frightened. "It's okay. It's me. It's Hotch."

There's a glimmer of recognition in Reid's eyes and then he seems to calm, his breathing gradually returning to normal, muscles going from taut to slack as he lets go of Hotch's arm.

"Sorry," he mumbles, his voice a little hoarse.

"You don't need to apologize." There's a moment of silence, and Hotch pats the bed awkwardly, asks, "Are you okay here?" 

Reid nods sleepily. "It's fine. It's comfortable. It smells like you." A pause. He covers his face with his hands, rubbing at his eyes. "Sorry. That was inappropriate. I—I'm really tired."

Hotch opens his mouth to respond, but quickly realises that he can't think of a single thing to say to that. "Do you need some water? When was the last time you ate?"

"No, I'm okay," Reid replies.

Hotch isn't entirely convinced, but he doesn't want to coddle him, so he nods and turns to leave.

"Just—Hotch?" comes Reid's voice, small, from behind him. Hotch turns back. "Would you—would you stay with me?" He looks so young, his pale face looking out from the sheets. Hotch hesitates, uncertain. "Just for a minute, I—if I go straight back to sleep, the dreams usually pick up right where they left off."

Hotch gives in at that, and is about to draw in the chair from the corner of the room when Reid shuffles aside, to the other side of the bed, making space. Something twists in Hotch's mind, some sense of unease, but he goes to the bed anyway, clambers unsteadily on, settles down on top of the covers where Reid was lying moments before. There is a warmth there, from his body, and Hotch tries not to think about it.

"Thank you," Reid says, faintly, curling in on his side.

Hotch lies on his back, his hands clasped and resting on his stomach, and says nothing. He is wide awake now, suddenly, and he stares at the ceiling dim above him, hyper-aware of each tiny movement Reid's body makes. He hasn't had someone else in his bed for a long time now.

"Hotch," says Reid quietly, and the silence had stretched on for so long between them that the sound of Reid's voice makes Hotch jolt, just a little. 

"Hm?"

Reid shifts uncomfortably beside him. "I—" he starts, and then swallows, and his voice sounds even more weak than it did before, like he might be fighting back tears. The realisation of that makes Hotch go tense; he clutches his hands together more tightly, fingertips pressing down hard between knuckles. "I just have to—" Reid pauses again, he inhales shakily. "I knew, Hotch."

Hotch waits, but nothing further comes. "What do you mean?" he asks quietly.

"I knew," Reid whispers. Hotch can feel Reid's eyes on him. "I knew that Nathan was the unsub."

Hotch digs in his fingernails. "He told you?" He tries to keep his voice steady, but if Reid was keeping secrets for Nathan, that's serious.

He can see, out of the corner of his eye, Reid shaking his head. "But only because—because I wouldn't let him." Reid's voice breaks. "He was trying to tell me, Hotch. That's why he came over. He was ready to confess and I—I wouldn't _let_ him, I didn't want to hear it. I knew, I knew deep down what he was trying to say and I just—I couldn't stand to hear it, I thought that...I thought that as long as he didn't say it out loud I could go on pretending."

Hotch says nothing. He's not sure there's anything to say.

"I would have done it," Reid goes on, tearfully. "I would have—I would have slept with him anyway. If you hadn't come—" he breaks off. His voice is meek and scared-sounding, like he's afraid of himself, of the truth he's admitting. "What does that make me?" he asks, voice ringing out in the quiet of the night.

Hotch does not know how to answer. Perhaps it makes Reid many things. Foolish. Troubled. Desperate for intimacy. 

"Very much in love," he says eventually, and the words surprise him, seemingly coming from some distant part of his mind, unbidden.

There's a thoughtful silence, and then—

"I think I was all along," Reid admits quietly. "But...Hotch, he killed five girls because I wouldn't reply to his letters. He did that because of _me_ , and—and I _still_ love him. I don't know how to stop." He shifts beside Hotch, uncomfortable. "The first time he kissed me was when I visited him in the hospital. I was coming off the Dilaudid and I barely knew what was happening but...I never told him he shouldn't have done it. And then the things he used to write to me—" he breaks off. "I never told him that he shouldn't. I never acknowledged it. I could have put a stop to it, Hotch, but I didn't. I think—I think I _liked_ it." His voice grows quieter, ashamed. "I'd never been wanted like that before."

There is an ache in Hotch's heart. He is silent.

Reid exhales and when he speaks again his voice is thick; Hotch knows now that he's crying. "I'm sick," he breathes.

Hotch shakes his head fervently, his hands clasped so tight now that they hurt. He longs to reach out with them instead, but he can't. He doesn't know what he wants those hands to do.

"You can't even look at me," Reid whispers, and before he can stop himself Hotch is turning, rolling over, taking Reid's face between both of his hands and looking into his eyes. It's all he can do, and maybe it's all Reid needs. Words are no good now, and it's a silent sort of reassurance that he offers. Without speaking, he is saying, _I know you. You are kind. You are good. There is nothing wrong with you._

For a second, Reid looks almost scared. He's startled, his breath caught in his throat, one tear rolling its way down his cheek and wetting the pillow beneath his head. Hotch stares into Reid's eyes like he's seeing something there, something he recognises, and then Reid is pulling closer, bridging the gap between them. He kisses with a fierce need, a desperation, and Hotch feels it, a frantic plea, _I need this, I need this_. 

Reid is unpractised, and his lips taste of salt, and Hotch thinks of him kissing Nathan Harris like this and it makes him want to hold him tighter, kiss him harder, banish every trace. A surge of possessiveness, of _anger_ , swells inside of him—Nathan almost had Reid, Reid would have _given_ himself to him, this fucked up kid who might have killed him afterwards simply because it's the only thing he knows. Hotch is angry at them both, but most of all with himself, for not quite seeing it, for _refusing_ to see it for what it was. For refusing to see so many things, until it was too late.

Every part of Reid's body is begging Hotch not to stop, but his words come back in Hotch's brain, _I barely knew what was happening_ , and he thinks of the night Reid's had—of the _week_ Reid's had—and he forces himself to pull away. He can barely take the look of dismay he gets in response.

"Reid," Hotch says, and it _hurts_ , it physically hurts to reject him like this. "Reid, no. You're—you're upset."

He can still taste him and it's making him dizzy; he still has one hand cupping Reid's face and it feels like he needs it there, to anchor him.

"No," says Reid brokenly, "I want this."

Hotch has to draw back, because the words make him want to do it all again and he _can't_ , he can't take advantage of Reid like this when he's vulnerable. He starts to get up, to leave, because he doesn't trust himself.

"Hotch," Reid pleads. "I just—please, just stay. Just stay with me, at least. I don't want to be alone right now."

Hotch can't deny him this, but as he settles back on the bed he can't look at Reid either. He can feel Reid's eyes on him, and it's a long time before either of them manages to fall asleep.

***

When Hotch wakes to the sound of his alarm at 7am, he is lying on top of the sheets in his bed, with Reid beneath them beside him. He can feel him—he looks down to see Reid's foot peeking out from under the covers, brushing against his own—and he remembers the feel of Reid's lips, the hunger in that kiss. He eases his foot away, and Reid wakes up, opens his eyes blearily.

"Time for work?" he asks, with a brave smile.

Hotch frowns. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea."

But Reid insists—says work will help keep his mind off things, keep his brain occupied, and Hotch has to admit he has a point. They're sure to have some paperwork from a different case for him to deal with, and it seems better bringing him into the B.A.U. than taking him back home, where a new door is scheduled to be put in today and it's unlikely to be a particularly relaxing environment. 

Hotch offers to lend him a shirt—he can't stand to see Reid in that sweater of Nathan's again—and Reid is reluctant but agrees. They eat breakfast in a reasonably comfortable silence, and Hotch resists the urge to feed Reid a couple of extra slices of toast, and then they drive to work. The team do not do well at hiding their surprise when the two of them arrive together, but they're respectful, for the most part giving Reid his space.

Reid comes into Hotch's office at lunchtime, hands over an impressive stack of papers.

"You did all that this morning?"

Reid smiles sheepishly. "I guess I had a lot to distract myself from."

Hotch nods sympathetically, expecting Reid to leave then—but he doesn't. Instead, he looks at Hotch carefully, like he's readying himself for something. He opens his mouth like he's about to speak, and then stops himself. Leans forward across the desk, tucking his hair behind his ear. Timid and hopeful like a teenager.

"Reid," Hotch hears himself say, his voice strained, "no." _Not here._

Reid's face falls. He's so close, and he smells like Hotch's deodorant and detergent and it's making Hotch light-headed. He immediately feels guilty, wants to make things better—but what Reid wants from him, Hotch isn't sure he can give. He doesn't understand what any of this means, whether Reid is just crying out for help or if it's something more.

He offers to drive Reid back home after work, because Reid shouldn't have to enter that apartment again alone. It's like cleaning the blood from Elle's walls; it's the aftermath, the return to normality, and sometimes it can't be faced without help. Reid unlocks his new door with his new key, and then seems frozen, standing at the threshold to his home and remembering. 

Hotch goes in first. He strips the sheets from the bed, bundles them into the washing machine, calls out to Reid and asks him where to find clean ones. As he makes the bed, Reid edges closer, stands in the doorway to the bedroom and watches him.

"Hotch," he says suddenly, and so quietly that Hotch almost doesn't hear him over the rustle of sheets. He sounds afraid. "Do you—do you think my life was at risk?"

Hotch goes still, looking up at him. Reid is gazing as if into space. They didn't find a weapon on Nathan, but—Hotch remembers the tape, Gideon asking, _Do you think about hurting Dr. Reid?_ He remembers the silence that followed, and then Nathan's voice coming back, as if over a bad connection, as if overseas. He remembers the boy sounding close to tears as he confessed, _I think about hurting everyone I'm attracted to._ A deep, shaky breath. _I know I'm fucked up._

"Maybe," Hotch says honestly.

Reid nods faintly, staring blankly at the bed. Hotch makes it to the door just as Reid's knees give out, just as he begins to crumple against the doorframe. He holds him up, and this time he kisses him, because he cannot help himself and because right now it's what Reid needs. Someone who wants him. Someone who won't hurt him. Someone to give him hope that things can be different.

***

"Would you—" Reid begins, in Hotch's office at the end of a long day, nervous as he approaches the question, "would you come with me to—" 

"Spit it out, Reid," says Hotch, gathering up his things into his briefcase.

"Would you come with me to visit Nathan?" The words all come out in a rush.

Hotch looks up at him, taken aback. It's been three months since the case closed, and he and Reid are—he doesn't quite know what he and Reid are, exactly, but their kiss in Reid's apartment was not their last, and there is some semblance of routine now, of nights spent at Hotch's when Reid doesn't want to be alone. Jessica raises her eyebrows each time Hotch brings Reid home from the office with him, but does not ask questions. Sometimes they do more than just lie beside each other, and it makes Hotch feel old and young again at the same time, and sometimes guilty, like he's taking something he doesn't deserve. It makes him worry about his own ability to do his job, about compromised judgement, about whether or not he could fire Reid if it seemed like he should. (And if it already seems like he should, and he simply cannot tell.)

But mostly—mostly it makes him happy, for the first time in a long time. And so it happens.

His voice softens. "Are you sure that's what you want?"

"I haven't had any closure, Hotch," Reid says, "I need to. I need to see him again. I feel like he's always there in my mind, and he only has his mother to visit him and—"

"You don't need to feel sorry for him," Hotch reminds him, a little sharply, but it seems that Reid can't help it.

Hotch relents, anyway. It's the idea of closure that convinces him. He tells himself that maybe if Reid sees Nathan just one last time, he'll be able to put all of this behind him, to move on. But later, sitting there beside Reid and looking at Nathan on the other side of the glass, he realises it was foolish to hope for such a thing. 

Nathan's appearance has changed more in the past three months than it did in the three years they went without seeing him—he looks older now, the lines in his face harsher and more set. There's anger and danger behind his eyes that couldn't have been picked out before, not even when he had just committed murder. He is still anxious, though, scared and suspicious, and he latches onto Reid the second he sees him. Without words, he pleads for redemption—though not for freedom. He's not quite naive enough for that.

Their conversation is odd—not what Hotch expected, perhaps, though he's not sure what he _did_ expect. They don't talk about Nathan's situation, about the past, about anything that happened or almost happened. Instead they talk about the books Nathan has borrowed from the prison library, and the conversation is vague and sort of fragile, as if the slightest mention of the truth of their situation could bring everything crumbling down around them. 

Hotch is silent, watching, and gradually he realises that Reid and Nathan are not saying goodbye. This is the first visit of many. After this, they will perhaps send letters. The cycle will begin again and he is powerless to stop it. There is something between them that Hotch will never be able to understand, no matter how hard he tries. It's in Reid's nature, this self-destructiveness, this longing to help those who can't be helped, and there's something in the way he looks at Nathan, something in his eyes that Hotch has never seen at any other time. With a sinking feeling, Hotch realises that Reid may never look at him that way.

But, sitting in the car after they leave, Hotch reaches for the clutch and Reid grasps his hand, and when then their eyes meet Hotch thinks he catches a glimmer of it. Maybe he's fooling himself, but, as Reid leans in close, his thin hands clinging to Hotch's back as he kisses him, he thinks that maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe Hotch can't give Reid security, stability, safety—but he can give him something better than Nathan. 

And maybe that's the best he can hope for.


End file.
